What These Bones are Made Of
by Aylin.JY
Summary: Post-Hogwarts. Hermione thought Ginny was kidding when she said she was setting her up with Draco Malfoy. She doesn't believe it when Ginny says he's at her door. She opens it and it turns out it isn't Carl, the pizza delivery guy, after all.
1. Prologue

**Disclaimer: In its use of intellectual property and characters belonging to JK Rowling, Warner Bros, Bloomsbury Publishing, etc., this work of fiction is intended to be transformative commentary on the original. No profit is being made from this work.**

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><p><strong>Prologue<strong>

.

**"Okay, I believe you. Please do move on. And by that, I mean - Draco is probably at your front door right now. Good luck, love! ;D"**

Her heart trotted in its steadily erratic beat from previously having a conversation about her past with Ron as well as an unwelcomed one about Ginny and Harry's sex life. "_What_?" she exclaimed aloud, quickly setting the glass of red wine in her hand before she sloshed it as she predictably would. Her fingers were quick and furious, tapping away her reply to Ginny, her exact train of thought.

**"What! You didn't say anything about him – my door – my house! Ginny, I'm in my pajamas! And the place is – papers – books – GINNY WEASLEY."**

**" I tooooldd you to be prepared didn't I? NOW GET YOU ARSE MOVING AND LET THE POOR BLOKE IN."**

**"But – I! You didn't say now! I thought you meant mentally prepared or – oh, Ginny!"**

Goodness knows why she thought it would be appropriate a time to even reply Ginny anymore, she groaned inwardly, resisting the urge to smack herself in the head which began to reel at the _possibilities_ – _no_. _No_! Surely, Ginny was playing a joke on her. It was improbable – no, absolutely impossible for Draco Malfoy to –

A knock on the door.

Hermione flew out of her seat, her fingers immediately entangled in her wild, unruly mane of hair. _NO_. She felt like she would explode from all the flurry of emotions she felt take flight inside of her, from her stomach to her heart and ensnaring her mind. She was angry – angry at Ginny and angry at Malfoy for unsettled past reasons that she could not possibly go into at the moment! She was nervous – nervous at the thought of Malfoy showing up! At her door! Surely, that was ridiculous! The nerves were ridiculous as well! Which brought her to embarrassment, embarrassed that she was flushed like a schoolgirl who received a smile from a crush – she was past all that now, and clearly, _obviously,_ Draco Malfoy was not a subject of _crushing_ – embarrassed that anyone at all would think she actually was attracted to this man who was previously, not _evil_, but foul and vindictive – in this admission to herself, she was met with hesitance to reevaluate his personality for who he really was at the moment and not who he was as a boy – and how embarrassed she truly did feel about it all. And then she was indignant, that Harry and Ginny found it in themselves to play matchmaker. _But were they to blame, really_? And she was trapped in wistfulness, which took liberty to twine itself tight around her every waking moment these days, seeping into her dreams in the night, with its lingering company of loneliness and bitterness and weariness. It was such a long list. And she was so tired.

She dropped back on the couch, sending the paperwork around her to flutter and settle messily back around or onto the carpeted floor. Her hands found its way into her curls again, her nails scraping at her scalp as she dragged in a deep breath she didn't know she had been holding, evoking a pang in the chest as she revisited her guilt and pain. If only she was still with Ron, if only that could've worked out. If only she were more tolerant and if only she were stronger, if only things were easier and if only she were braver. If only he was kinder and if only she found a reason to stay – if only she even bothered to seek one out!

_Why though_, she questioned forcefully. Why did it deem necessary to her that she should be in love with him, that she should _be_ with him? She shook her head hard, as she contemplated her questions. These were questions marks upon question marks, and they tore at her already tattered conscience in unspoken ways.

A blink on her laptop screen caught her attention, breaking off the internal interrogation. She read Ginny's reply:

**"Oh, just go greet him in your pajamas then. I bet he won't mind a bit ;D"**

And it sent her up on her feet again. She forgot he was there! She didn't even have time to retch at Ginny's implication. She began to pace. She considered just ignoring him. She paused in her steps and realized, maybe that's what he thought she'd been doing and he'd taken the hint and taken off.

The second knock sounded and it was less curt, more hesitant, but somehow also much insistent – it triggered her to resume her pacing and was the wind to unsettle everything inside of her. She was lost at that point and plopped herself back down in front of the laptop and tapped furiously.

**"Oh, I can't! I just!"**

And that was all she sent in return because those were the only words that arose in the sea of bouncing letters.

**"FLOO ME TOMORROW, DARLING. Harry and I have to go 'play' now ;D"**

She would've snorted if the situation on her part had not been so dire. She slammed her laptop shut, wishing that technology had been advanced enough for Ginny to have felt that or at least, heard it, sending the message equivalent to a slamming phone without a word of goodbye or well-wishing. She also made a mental note to wring Harry's neck out for teaching Ginny how to use smiley's.

She took in her surroundings, the files she brought home from the Department of Magical Accidents and Catastrophes on recent Muggle-related incidents that needed to be sorted that had been fanned out were uprooted and scattered now. The books on Herbology that she had borrowed from Neville spread on the coffee table, on the couch around her, on the floor as she had hoped to get some research done on the possibilities of improving the effectiveness of the Wolfsbane potion.

She sighed, pinching the bridge of her nose, when for the third time, a knock came from the front door of her flat. She was too tired to be set on edge again. So she pushed herself up from her seat, a sense of dread shot from inside out, mirroring on her face. She strode to the door, her finger tips tingling as she reached for the door. She paused to put on a coat that hung on the rack beside her to cover up better. She took a deep breath, leaning her forehead on the cold wood as she listened to the shuffling of feet coming from beyond that door.

_Oh_! She miserably scolded herself when all of a sudden, she remembered, she had ordered takeout earlier! It might not even be Malfoy!

And at the happy, self-assuring thought, she unraveled her dismal outlook, and with a smile on her face that spelt relief, she heard the click of the mechanics as she unlocked the door and the rustling sound of a reaction it caused, and pulled it open.

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><p>Hermione Granger would say no, he had told them. He had insisted and pressed on to Potter and the Weaslette that she would say no because he was sure that was how it would go down – if she even opened the door to let him in. They had reassured him that no, she would not, that she had promised the Weaslette to give him a chance, and that she trusted Potter's word for it. He had skeptically told them they had gone bonkers and while internally hoping for what they proposed to be the case, stood by his conjecture of Granger's reaction anyway. He would be gleefully smug about being right if he weren't so gutted with disappointment – no, he was not disappointed. Frustration – that was it, coupled with indignation.<p>

He huffed as he stuck his foot down onto the welcome mat with a silent thump, decidedly finished with fidgeting and shifting his weight – no doubt that would alert the downstairs' neighbor, he thought with perverse satisfaction, give the unnerving woman behind this door some trouble, for Merlin's sake. How dare she? She didn't even bother to cast a Silencing charm or the Muffliato spell that Potter took to using, which he was sure she knew of as well – he snorted at the thought of Potter practicing a spell without the bushy-haired Granger's knowledge. All the while, she just stomped around the flat like a bloody elephant, knowing he could hear her. How _rude_.

At the thought of her purposely relishing in denying him access to her home, denying him a moment for him to speak and show her who he was now, denying him the chance at redemption, he threw the bouquet of flowers he had brought along with him into this wretched Muggle building that accommodated this witch to the ground. _Flowers_, he snorted again brashly.

He had already knocked twice. The first time, he had been on fire, set on the absolute furthest edge of his mind with his raw-ended nerves. It took him quite a stretch to realize that clock had ticked past in the invitation of time in his fretful and empty stupor, yet the owner of this flat had failed to present herself at the door. Because of how the blood had rushed through his ears, he couldn't have paid any attention to what had gone on inside during his ten-minute wait – he'd checked his pocket watch then. Incredibly unsure, he raised his empty fist to knock again. This time, having cooled off from perplexity, he heard it – the pacing, the squeak of floorboards, the thudding on carpet, the _plop_ sound of that sounded like someone flopping onto a couch, the shuffling sound like papers aflutter, the furious tapping like on a typewriter or one of those computers Potter and Weaslette used, and the loud, angry slam.

That brought him back to the present. He lifted his hand to run it through his hair and when it came in contact with his bare forehead, he was reminded that he had cropped it off, so he dragged his hand further upwards and let his fingers scrape through what remained. In his moment of vulnerability, he neglected to be hostile in his thoughts, as he bitterly claimed his victory in how Ginny was wrong and Harry was wrong. Granger, though the noble Gryffindor princess she was, could not bring herself to grant him a conversation, with a look in the eye and open ears and an open mind – never mind an open heart. Maybe she knew that it would be disastrous, that she could not accept what he would present to her, as if he were a case, a file, something to be analyzed and studied and drawn a conclusion to, and so decided to not even open her door of her home to him. It was a symbolization of how she was closed off to him as well.

Maybe this was for the best, he deliberated as his hair became more and more unkempt from his insistent fingers in their idleness. They wouldn't have to be obligated to go through with the date Harry and Ginny insisted on. They wouldn't have to be interrogated on how it went – how _bad _it went, he chided in his head grimly, and how and why it wouldn't happen again. And they most certainly would not have to go through that awful phase of awkwardness where they had to shift from former enemies to admittedly strangers and then mold their nonexistent relationship into one of friendship. They would not make it through all that. Not without a hex uttered or a punch, in her case, thrown at the other. She thought it too. She thought it with that logical, exasperating brain of hers and believed it with her heart, and so chose to ignore the man in the hallway. Yes, for she was a Gryffindor through and through, and the matters of mind and heart always intertwined. Yes, a Gryffindor, he supposed it would require some courage to deny the Weaslette of her wishes, or rather, demands, so in an ironic way, she was still incorporated with her bravery.

With a sigh, he rocked on the balls of his feet, clenching his eyes shut. For the best, yes.

Just then, he heard a click and froze, eyes snapping wide open in surprise. The click sounded suspiciously like the unlocking of a door. She was – no, clearly, she couldn't be –

_Fuck_, he swallowed, he had already been frozen for seconds too long. He bent quickly to pick up the flowers that had delicately shed some of its petals in protest of being chucked carelessly to the floor just as the door knob was turned.

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><p>AN: This fic was started because of a bit of RP-ing I did just for fun with a friend. So this one's for you, Angel! I have never attempted writing fanfic before your reviews will be much appreciated, thank you!


	2. Chapter One

**Disclaimer: In its use of intellectual property and characters belonging to JK Rowling, Warner Bros, Bloomsbury Publishing, et cetera, this work of fiction is intended to be transformative commentary on the original. No profit is being made from this work.**

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><p><strong><span>Chapter One: Step One, You Say We Need to Talk<span>**

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"Hey, Carl –"

She was met with thin air as she looked right ahead, the door swung cheerfully wide open. She frowned at it, and within the second, turned her head down to catch sight of a bent over figure. The dim light in the hallway cast a backlit halo upon the head of golden hair of the man that had stood beyond her door.

No, he certainly wasn't Carl, the American teenage boy who delivered pizzas as he ran out of money from backpacking in Europe with his mop of greasy black hair and lanky and awkwardly thin with a face full of freckles. Nor was he the Chinese man who spoke little English with his shiny swept back ponytail and stubby figure, carrying plastic containers stacked of food hung to the ends of a wooden stick he supported on his shoulders.

She had ordered pizza, hadn't she? Why would she think to expect the Chinese man?

Or maybe it was that man from the Thai restaurant down –

Oh, who was she kidding? Denial was not an attribute to be shown by Hermione Granger. Her facial expressions had shifted from the thoughtful frown to a shocked gape with an open mouth. When she had accepted the fact that it was, in fact, the man she dreaded to see that was before her at the moment, without any time to cover up her chagrin and surprise, she saw the ripple of his neck muscles as he turned his face up.

Her heart jumped to her throat. _Merlin, I –_ She blinked in earnest, her eyelids fluttering close then open again.

He peered at her from under his lashes, each a fine glimmering strand of dark gold, a contrast to the grey behind them. And she saw it – the widening of his eyes, the dilation of his pupils and as he moved to stand straight, the bob in his throat, his swallow.

Her eyes followed, shyly, attentively, trained on his face as he had pulled himself to his full height. His expression had turned from surprised to unreadable in the milliseconds where he had lowered his head to face to the floor as he straightened up, ever so careful. She sank the top row of her teeth into her bottom lip as her mind came to a euphoric blankness and she dropped her eyes, attempting to clear the haze because all the staring just couldn't do.

.

.

He was glad she averted her gaze. He could stare unabashedly.

And he did precisely that. His eyes trailed from her downturned head, noting how it was still ever so wild her brown curls were but how he felt incredibly different about it now, to her little nose that peeked from underneath the curtains her hair formed that remained to be the only facial feature he could spot at the moment, to her neck where he refused to acknowledge how the "incredibly different" feeling that sparked with higher intensity, to where her exposed flesh disappeared in the coat she tucked around herself. From there, his mind began to conjecture her shape, not quite yet undressing her layers but deciphering the puzzle of how she must look in fitting clothes and not as the shapeless mound she was now, his eyes burning a path down to where the coat ended. And he inhaled sharply through his nose, and because of the exhale that did not come soon enough, caused a scratch in his throat where his breath was caught at what he saw. The thought came, you see, the "incredibly different" feeling had a name to it.

.

.

That's when he coughed and her chin shot up. Her cheeks burned and her heart thumped in an indignant, tribal beat of the drum rhythm.

He must've thought her silly, ridiculous even. He probably found it amusing, in that sneering, patronizing way of his. He must've thought he was so _handsome _that it rendered her speechless – goodness, that was not the case! What a vile thought – what vile _lie_! The fire on her face was fueled by her embarrassment and it reached the brown in her eyes, setting it ablaze as she fixed him a glare – Right. In. The. Eye.

"Malfoy."

.

.

He resisted the urge to sneer at her because he saw it then – in her eyes, that glint of anger, in her jaw, set in that defiant clench, even in the fists on the front of her charcoal-colored coat, tight-gripped. His reflex was still be to antagonistic, despite what change he had undergone, it remained his essence, rooted as nature, a defense mechanism at best.

She had a wall up that deemed impenetrable. But the Weaslette had often told her that Hermione Granger had a loud bark with virtually no bite – his memory of the slap back in the Third Year begged to differ – and that what it took was not a bulldozer, but words of persuasion for her to bring that wall down. He needed to present her with words of reasoning to appeal to her logical side for her to lower her shield, and as soon as there is a crack in her defense, he would wrench her out of the past and her false ideas of who he remained to be, into his arms and ravish her –

"Granger." It came out strangled.

.

.

Her eyes narrowed suspiciously. Then they widened at comprehension and she voiced her explanation to why he was acting so strangely, her mouth set in a stubborn line. "Standing at the door of a Mudblood got your tongue?" she hissed.

Long ago, the word had held much meaning – much painful meaning. But it was much like any other curse word, something that oughtn't be taught or learned but eventually was reached to the younger generation just as it had so many times since it originated. And even though it was a sensitive issue because it was racist, much like the words "shit" which evolved in years to "fuck" that became common, redundant from being uttered out of casualness or playfulness, it lost its sting. And she could say it, yes. She could say it with a straight face.

.

.

Something squeezed his heart tight enough for him to feel as if it was going to pop. Anger and disappointment and indignation and regret – it was another bout of these bothersome emotions. He could do without them. Fucking Weaslette and her boyfriend – him and Granger – preposterous – just because they were all loved up – he wasn't lonely at all! – there were plenty of women out there – he had been attracted to many, had _had _many – nothing could possibly – _no_. His nose wrinkled in the beginnings of a snarl, a lash-back on the tip of his tongue, in the back of his head so horrible he knew that if he spat it out the way he was about to, the way he had always done, there would be no going back. And he was just about to – sod it all –

His fists tightened and there was a rustle of plastic and both their eyes dropped to what he was holding. His eyes flashed up and caught the look of surprise on Hermione's face which flitted, replaced by a careful wariness. He grimaced. _Try again, Draco, try_.

"I believe," he spoke in a low voice, "that the expression is 'cat got your tongue'."

On cue, a giant fur ball of orange appeared meowing, popping its head out from behind Hermione's legs. On the way up from looking at the cat, he let his eyes glide up over her legs until he met her eyes again. _Careful now, Draco_.

.

.

She wore a guarded expression. Flowers. She looked to the floor and saw petals of red and peach scattered. _Great_, she scowled, _I have to sweep the hall now _–

"Thanks, Malfoy," she muttered.

He picked up on the sarcasm but not quite the reason and growled.

She clapped a hand over her mouth, horrified at what she'd just let out. Despite everything, he did show up at her door, with _roses_ in hand, and held his temper when she taunted her – why? Never mind why right now, Hermione Jean Granger! She opened her mouth, eyes troubled, to apologize but before the words could find their way out, he had thrust the flowers forcefully at her. The bouquet shook and more petals detached themselves at the careless manner of his handling, fluttering to their feet where Crookshanks began to scratch his paws at the velvet. She realized they must've suffered from his wait for her in her fretting.

"If you don't like them, feed them to your cat," he half-snarled, though there was no contempt behind it, and if anything, Hermione thought he might have been making a joke.

She couldn't be angry at him, not now. Her lips quirked into a weak smile, as she found all this to be rather out of control, and hoped that he wouldn't get angrier by how she could've found this situation amusing. So she took the tattered roses, and invited him in.

.

.

"No."

"What?"

"No," he bit out, ducking his head from the throbbing headache he was getting from her mood swings. He peered up at her from under his lashes, reading a look of indignant surprise and watched as she crossed her arms in front of her chest and gave him an impatient and irritated scowl. He almost smirked when he raised his head again.

Her eyes were narrowed, the brown in them distinctly gleaming again. He almost heard the mechanics of her brain working as she surely had begun to try and work out what he was playing at.

"Would you like to come in?" she tried again, the corners of her lips trembling as she did her very best to prevent them from twitching.

"No," he repeated, mirroring her stance. He reveled at how it was a great advantage to be taller a head and more than her as he looked down on her.

She couldn't stop the twitch in her lips after all so she snapped it open and began, "Look here, Malfoy!" She dropped her arms to her sides and her coat gapped open, and his flashed almost on their own accord to glimpse at what she had been hiding behind it.

The lacy skin-colored camisole underneath flashed a good amount of cleavage when she swung her right hand up to point at him in some sort of enraged fit, the left holding onto the bouquet. From his experience with woman, he could tell she was wearing nothing else underneath. This knowledge caused a tightening both in his throat and his pants. A voice in his head yelled at him like a madman to stop _right there_, because this could not end well for him. His eyes disobeyed the voice and took in the inward curve of her waist, the blossom of her hips that disappeared back into the coat and the slimming of her legs to her bare dainty little feet.

He swung his eyes back up when she began to rattle off. "You do not show up at my flat – with flowers – and stand at my door – waiting – I know I made you wait – you bought flowers – I didn't know what I was _doing _– and you waited – how long did I made you wait, I have no idea – _stupid flowers_ –"

He quirked an eyebrow at her little rant and a sound thought clicked in his head telling him, _why_, he clearly didn't need to listen to this.

"– and say no when I ask you – when I invite you into my home – rude – I know I made you wait – flowers –"

"I'm confused," he drawled, unable to resist, with his eyes on the many times mentioned subject, "Are you angry at the flowers or me?"

Her eyes flickered to the roses in her death grip as he stared at them as well. They might as well have wilted; he wouldn't be able to tell the difference. Her grip slackened visibly as a few more petals floated to touch the ground, the veins that were protruding sinking back under her skin.

He looked down on the floor, showered with the bright petals that had slowly began to darken and mentally noted with an ironic humor how it looked much like a marriage proposal gone wrong if a stranger were to pass by. The ginger fur ball that Granger kept as a pet looked up at him curiously, a paw stretched as if asking permission to pet his foot. _Intelligent_, a voice in his head approved in a clipped tone.

Moments passed and no answer. His eyes began to travel their way up her legs again, slower this time. He _ached_. Her skin looked so _soft_. And then he paused when he spotted what bottoms she was wearing. A wave of tension ripped through the muscles on his back and he felt his body rigidify, his eyes narrowed at a spot on her shoulder now.

_Boxers. Men's boxers._

Maybe he had it wrong. Maybe there was a whole different meaning behind why she hadn't opened the door. Maybe she had company. Maybe she was a sneaky little – no, clearly, she wasn't a _whore_, she was Hermione Granger, but sneaky, yes, how else would Potter and Weaslette not know if she were seeing someone else? Why else would they put him up to this? They certainly would not if they had known. They were optimistic. They were _fucking fools_.

Brazenly, he flexed his arms, attempting to loosen the tautness in his back, taking a step back as he did. He fixed her a cold glare before turning on his heel and stalking to the direction of the stairs.

.

.

The ice in the grey of his eyes was unnerving. And she had a flashback in event of the time he had first spat the word "mudblood" at her, stirring up a rather uneasy feeling in her gut. What had caused the sudden change in attitude? Because just a second ago… Just a second ago, she was sure, he had been…

_Had been what, Hermione_? She shook her head. He was just giving her an once-over, assessing her for what she had grown into. He had not been _checking her out_, to brusquely put it. She had gotten a good look of him as well. She blushed at the thought. No,_ she_ certainly had not been _checking him out_.

They had never crossed paths in the past 3 years since the end of the War, not really. She had seen him from afar, his blond head, the tall figure in the usual black getup, in the Ministry, in functions, up until last year when she had broken up with Ron and flown off to Australia where her parents had decided to stay for a while longer since she had reversed the Obliviate she casted before things had escalated. She had known he'd grown into a man, with hardening lines and more distinctive features and from the sounds of it – all over Wizarding tabloids and gossip magazines – he had softened around the edges with a charming smile and strung in quite a few beautiful ladies by losing that pompous sneer. She had seen close-ups of his face in the magazines and on the Daily Prophet, yes, caught the occasional glimpse in the next coffee table, on a tube, by a newsstand in Diagon Alley or other Wizarding communities. Though, due to her lack of interest, she had never really_ looked_.

There he had been, standing outside her door, for her, giving her flowers, having waited for her, like the ending to some bad romance movie, clichéd teenage novel, _how could she not look_?

He had matured. He was not as pale as he had been. His grey eyes had a glow to them, set deep in his fair skin, if they were not dimmed by the cold he had just disguised them in, like wisdom or knowledge, or maybe just a spark that refused to go out like stubbornness and willpower. His platinum hair had been cropped off and that had only shown off his face better. It didn't seem as pointy as it used to be, his face. Everything seemed to have thickened, the lines. It was the face of a man, and not the boy who used to bully her.

All of the sudden, she remembered Sixth Year when he had begun to grow into a man. It was the expressions more than anything, though he had turned gaunt and paper-pale. And then experience had toughened him up, carving an edge to his outlook. It had been a horrid two years for him, she was sure, for what had occurred in the War and what Harry had vouched for when it had ended, in trial of surviving Death Eaters to serve justice, keeping Narcissa Malfoy and Draco Malfoy from Askaban. Such fates, however, were not escaped by Lucius Malfoy. _Draco Malfoy had been reluctant to identify Harry Potter and his comrades when they were presented by a band of Snatchers in the Malfoy Manner. Draco Malfoy had prevented Vincent Crabbe and Gregory Goyle from killing Harry Potter and his comrades when they were cornered in a part of Hogwarts before the end of the War. Narcissa Malfoy had lied to Lord Voldemort about Harry Potter's second survival from the Killing Curse._

She was hesitant, yes, but whatever for?

An image of him taunting her to be a filthy little mudblood flitted to mind again.

Surely not that?

She stood dumbstruck, too long after he had already taken off.

.

.

He fumed. Stuck in Muggle London, he was blocks away from the Leaky Cauldron where it would be his Apparition point back to Grimmauld Place where hopefully the Weaslette stuck around so he could give both of them a piece of his mind simultaneously.

He grimaced at the thought of walking into them and their intimate relations again and nearly changed his mind. The Weaslette was never nearly as abashed about it as Potter was, that shameless witch – so long as she could cover up, she would ask Draco to turn around while she got dressed and then would jovially offer him whiskey because she was well aware of how he needed something to drown out what he had just encountered. Though that was of course, if she were sated, otherwise, there would be something thrown – a pillow if he were lucky and if not, some heavier piece of furniture like a lamp or even a hex if her or Potter's wand was in reach – and a yell for him to depart immediately, followed by the threat of how if he did not, she really did not care and would carry on either way. Of course, Potter would not have continued in their sessions with his decency but Draco wouldn't hold it against the Weaslette to pull off anything short of a horrific miracle. To give Draco some credit though, he had learned to have a hand over his eyes whenever he Flooed or Apparated into the house. If he were to walk in through the front door, he would listen for any signs beforehand and still take the precaution.

This time, he would not even pause – though he would keep his eyes under his hand – when he wreaked verbal abuse upon the two who sent him knocking on Hermione Granger's door.

She was beyond _aggravating_! She thought he still bought into all that blood superiority bullshit, did she now? She had only proved that she was the one who had not grown up by thinking that he had not. Why did he buy those stupid roses in the first place anyway?

Just then, he spotted the florist shop where he had popped into on impulse and stood stupidly for five minutes not knowing what kind of flowers Granger would like.

"Fuck," he swore out loud, rooting on to the pavement and glaring daggers at the pretty little corner.

"Oi!" There were several protests as people bumped into him and shoved at him for coming to an abrupt halt in a busy street but he stayed with his feet planted to the sidewalk.

The worst part was, he concluded after swimming in his thoughts for a while, that he really could not begin to fathom what it was she wanted him to do. As he did, he started to move forward again.

"Malfoy!"

He craned his neck around to look for the owner of the voice to no avail, and walked on rather hesitantly.

"Malfoy!"

This time it even sounded like Granger. He shook his head hard and picked up his pace.

"MALFOY!"

His footsteps stopped again and there were more angry shouts from pedestrians around him but all he tried to do was shake his head to get that voice out because he could not possibly –

"DRACO. MALFOY!"

He turned around again and this time spotted her, shoving a middle-aged man with a balding spot aside. She appeared completely out of breath. When she reached him, she held out a finger, huffing and puffing.

He raised an incredulous eyebrow when he realized she was still sporting the gray coat and the revealing sleepwear. Now she was bent over, one hand on her knee and the other on her hip, as she tried to catch her breath. He courteously surrendered a very good chance to ogle by staring up at the inky sky while another part of his anatomy complained. _Yes, perfect time to be a gentleman now, Draco_, a second protestor groaned in the back of his head. He had built quite a sexual appetite, even merely for his eyes, in all the beautiful women who had come to accompany him on the lonelier nights. How he had the self-control to ignore the view that had been put forward so carelessly before him so gallantly, he failed to be comprehended.

Her index finger stabbed weakly at his chest and he granted himself a look at the damsel in distress, so to speak. She had managed to pull herself up, with one arm gripping her side and the other with its pointed finger on his chest. He stared down at the creases that formed on his crisp black shirt around the edges of where she prodded him.

"You," she huffed the word, making it sound demeaning. She took a few gulps of air and exhaled soundly through her nose, a glare fixed in her narrowed gaze.

"I?" he humored her, though if honest, he was humored by this himself.

"You!" she exclaimed redundantly.

Just then a person rammed into her, yelling a "watch it" and scurrying off. He saw her trip over her feet, wild mass of hair blown adrift as she jerked forward, face first. Without thought, he opened his arms, almost inviting her in, as he attempted to catch her. As she was propelled into him without warning, she threw her arms out to catch her fall and then ended up one latched on his shoulder and the other under his arm, about his torso.

His hands remained as open palms while he opened and closed his mouth repeatedly, much like fish, as her scent wafted around and enveloped him, invading his senses. He felt her stiffen under the bodily contact and prepared himself to argue and deny anything thrown at him because he knew she'd felt _it_, the traitorous physical indication of his arousal, which now had began to hurt him quite literally with the constriction against the non-stretchable material of his slacks.

But it didn't come, the accusations. She retracted herself, pausing when a stray curl got caught around one little button of his shirt which he helped untangle, then took a few paces back so there was an efficient amount of space to be approved as that of the distance between two acquaintances speaking.

The hustle and bustle of the city was a comforting background track with the occasional bark of a dog and honk of a car to accompany the talking, the laughing, the scraping sounds or clicks or slaps of footsteps on the pavement, the shouting, the rustling of plastic, the beep or ring of a phone, the music playing from inside a shop or out of the speakers of a boom box of a street performer or rowdy teenagers and their phones, the soft thuds of colliding people and the sound of working machines.

Then there was hooting, followed by wolf-whistles and raucous laughter. And then, "_Hey, baby_!" – Hermione's head snapped up, ditching her shy downcast eyes immediately. It was the reflex of someone who had been on the run from Snatchers and Death Eater, and could recognize when a curse was thrown in her direction and react to it. Her face was brightened to a red that rivaled the Weasel's when he was livid or humiliated, and began to turn blotchy with the embarrassment turned anger. Her narrowed eyes spoke volumes of how she had a_ lot_ to say.

The breath left her in an exhale of a gasp of indignation as she caught sight of the group of men, no older than Draco and herself. The dark-haired man in the middle, drunkest of all, judging by how two of his other friends – who were clearly sloshed as well – were supporting him, waved an arm that sloppily smacked the back of blond next to him. The blond retaliated with an "_Oi_!" and his grip on the dark-haired man's hand, causing him to slip. His full weight was shifted onto the stocky man who was also holding him up and he stumbled but managed to keep them both on his feet.

_Shame_, Draco scowled.

The other four with the group ripped into howls of riotous laughter. Passersby shook their heads and shot disapproving glowers at the cluster of absolutely smashed men, pushing on and doing their best to keep their distances.

"OI!"

One of the men scooted, revealing a child that was staggering behind him that must have rammed into him in his sprint, and turned on the child.

The mother of the blond boy hurried forward, eyes wide with horror. "Tate!" She caught up with him and rounded up her son, clasping her hands at his front, holding onto him with dear life, pulling him backwards in a cautious motion, like that of a hunted prey. Her eyes chanted a silent prayer, pleading.

The pulse in Draco's neck quickened, his eyes prickling.

The man who had been walked into stalked forward, his back muscles taut with tension. The mother dragged the boy who had begun to cry into her stomach, hands clutching onto his shirt. Draco could not see the face of the man but he had a vague idea, despite how the expression must be unclear because of how intoxicated he was. He had seen the same emotions displayed across an array of faces, painted in threatening colors.

"Please," she began to beg. "He's just a _boy_."

He dimly noted Hermione react in front him, but before he acknowledged his actions, with a thundering thumping in his ears, he had treaded through the crowd of spectators that had gathered and planted himself in front of the advancing drunkard, shielding the traumatized mother and child, his eyes ablaze.

.

.

Hermione had watched the scene unfold before her with a heated indignation bubbling inside of her chest. Her protective instincts reared its head and she writhed inside. She writhed in the helplessness she felt because it was a bunch of grown men that would be of opposition and she was not as stupid as to think she could take them on empty-handed. And surely, she could not perform magic in the open public of London. And – oh, _oh_! She had forgotten to bring her wand! She stomped her foot in frustration at this remembrance of how she had rushed out after Draco Malfoy had walked away from her.

Why was no one stepping up? Where were the men? Never mind the police officers, _where were the men_?

The situation mocked her when the mother had resorted to begin pleading. She bared her teeth, letting the air in her hiss out in between. Her muscles slackened when she made the conscious decision to forgo herself and intervene with the menacing prospect.

But in a gust of wind, Malfoy had overtook her and slid through the onlookers. She opened her mouth, to call him, to stop him, to do something because surely, even he, as just one man, could not hinder this without fault – without being beat into a pulp! But she paused, biting her lip. He would not, no. He wouldn't put himself in that position – she must have spent too many years with Harry Potter. She could not mistake him for Harry.

But she was wrong, she realized, eyes widening in wonderment, when he indeed halted in front of the mother and child and turned to face the approaching man and his pals around him. She saw something burning in his eyes, passionate and fierce, a fire in the pale and cold grey, and found a lump in her throat which refused to be swallowed.

His jaw was set, a perfect presentation of his stubbornness. He glared up from under his lashes, eyeing the men with contempt. His hands were fisted tightly, at his sides.

"Ju!" The man pointed at him, swaying in his forward match.

Malfoy raised an inquisitive eyebrow. "_What_?" he bit out, his face a picture of rigid calmness, like the frozen sea.

"Joo! Whatchu tryna do, huh!" he grunted roughly, waving a fist at Malfoy.

Both his eyebrows did a little jerk upwards and a ghost of the infamous Malfoy smirk from their childhood materialized upon his lips. "You'd have to speak English for me to understand you," he drawled with the confidence that should not be possessed by someone who was about to go one-on-seven – well, five, because the dark-haired man and the blond one seemed to have started a brawl of their own, somehow managing to migrate to the opening of an alleyway, shoving at each other and slurring, Hermione noticed with a flicker of her wide brown eyes.

"Fink yor so funny now huh, well, I'll a –"

He charged at Malfoy like a bull, his arm out with his fist aiming to take a swing at him. He stumbled in his launch to attack and went a little far left of where his target stood.

_Oh_, she had forgotten, _these were drunken men_.

Easily, Malfoy stuck a foot out and tripped him, sending him to land with a loud snap on his chin. She suspected something must've broken there, or maybe a tooth had been rooted out. He stayed on the ground after that.

"Oi! You don't do that to Kenny –" a lanky man – boy, really, he must've been no older than 18 – came at Malfoy next. He seemed to have a better hold of himself as he managed to stalk forward in a straight line and actually throw a punch that was on target. However, he was still sloppy and his right fist was caught in Malfoy's left hand.

"Ah – ah – " the boy squirmed under his crushing grip and tried to wring his hand out. When it was let go of quite suddenly, the boy stumbled backwards, tripping into another man and fell together.

"Right so, you boys are absolutely sloshed – I suggest you call it a night," Malfoy hinted pleasantly with a hidden promise that if they did not, he would gladly help them do so.

So they scrammed, best and fast as they could, as incoherent as they were, staggering and tripping over themselves, receiving a good couple of glares and "What a bunch of joke"s from the earlier onlookers who had begun to move on.

And that should've been the line drawing towards the happy ending, complemented by applause from the crowd and dramatic music swelling from the background and drowning all else out. But even in the movies, you learn to expect a bombshell, especially if you'd checked the duration of the movie. However, this was no movie and there was no applause and Hermione did not expect there to be music. Yet, with her previously razor sharp instincts, she had not seen it coming when the dark-haired man who had been drunkenly dancing with his blond partner trotted into her line of vision, right in front of her.

She smelled it, the draft of alcohol in his breath. She blinked, disturbed by the scent. While her sight was obstructed, she felt a hand snare her arm and pull her in. She felt herself pressed up to a foreign body, surrounded by an unfamiliar odor, surged with a well-acquainted queasy feeling in her gut. She was unbelievably still, holding her breath. From experience, she knew exactly what to do.

But experience was a cold and heartless tormentor as it bestowed upon her the images of a madwoman with long black locks of hair, brandishing a wand, a dagger, whispering in her ear, taunting her and sending her skin prickling with electricity from the prospect of pain. And she wasn't so much as being careful anymore as she was frozen from fear.

"HEY!"

"Scotland Yard –"

"Break it up!"

"Move along now."

"Step away from the woman."

"You are under arrest –"

"You are under arrest for the disturbance of –"

"Miss, I'm afraid you'll have to follow us back to the station."

.

.

"A prostitute."

Draco Malfoy sat next to her, nursing a bruise on his right jaw from resisting an officer. He slid his eyes over where she stared dead straight ahead with a look of bemusement on her pale face. Her coat was securely buttoned and she now wore a pair of track pants a female officer had handed to her in pity.

"A prostitute," she repeated, her tone colored by embarrassment more than disbelief now.

He couldn't stop the eyebrow that raised itself but he continued to fight the smirk that was tugging at the ends of his lips.

She turned around to face him then, her brows furrowed and her mouth open, as she expressed her indignation while humiliation spread across the tip of her cheekbones in red. "They thought I was a prostitute!" she cried.

He looked away this time, staring at the quiet bustle of Scotland Yard from where they sat across the street on a bench under an orange streetlight in the night. "You were dressed rather impeccably, Granger," he muttered.

A blow to his head sent it jerking back in her direction, his mouth opening furiously to wreak havoc upon her but then he took in the stick of a branch in her hand, the crossed look on her face and her flyaway hair, and a rumble of laughter ripped through his abdomen.

She looked _ridiculous_ but Merlin, somehow under the streetlight, he could delude himself into thinking she was beautiful. Because that wasn't what _Hermione Granger_ was, not who she was. Granger was Granger. And she could only be beautiful to Draco Malfoy because of the glow of the streetlight and the quiet of the midnight.

It was the light that made the blaze in her brown eyes become a smolder, and the color on her cheeks so inviting. It was the nightly breeze that made her feral curls look gentle and soft. And that _look_, for Salazar's sake, it was just endearing!

He coughed a few times to cover up his laughter but it became unstoppable when he came to the revelation that he thought she was beautiful. What a laughable idea indeed! But at the moment, it was irrefutable and he would much rather not think about that now.

.

.

He was doubled over, a rough sound that was suspiciously like laughter pouring out of his throat, deep and infectious. But she was too shocked. She sat there, her eyes wide, too overcome by surprise to even bring her jaw to drop open.

She felt the color in her cheeks darken and she ducked her head, unable to comprehend why he was laughing. And she was Hermione Granger, and she just needed to_ know_.

At the same time, she couldn't understand this feeling overflowing inside of her – the desire to laugh as well. She knew the feeling well in general, when she was with Harry or Ron or Ginny or the rest of the Weasleys or Neville and Luna or a few other friends. But it was an alien concept, with Draco Malfoy.

"I look pretty ridiculous right now, don't I?" she said lightly, shooting him a shy glance.

He grinned in response, only barely containing his laughter. She began to chuckle, noticing how his hair glinted and how there was a backlit halo, how his eyes scrunched up and his nose was wrinkled, and the ring in it so genuine, and she realized that she'd never heard him laugh before. Not without his cronies, not without his childish insults and provocations. Her laugh became louder, more earnest and clutching the leg of the trousers that did not belong to her, she shook in the wonder of it.

.

.

The night had gotten quieter, after a middle-aged officer came out to hush the positively howling couple with the threat of charging them for public disturbance.

As they settled into half-hearted poker faces, stuffing their fists in their mouths to cut off the reduced giggles and chortles, the officer turned around, shaking his head, muttering the beginnings of a long speech about young love. No doubt his coworkers would suffer from it.

They settled down, five minutes after the officer with the graying hair had left. They both slouched on the bench with their heads leaned on the top border, inhaling deeply to even their breaths. The night smelled of dew, tainted by a smidgen of smoke, and the inky sky had no stars to show because of the city lights.

Hermione was the one to speak first. "I didn't expect you to do it," she whispered without turning her head.

His hands resting on his lap clenched and unclenched while he tried to sort through his laughter-induced foggy thoughts. He cleared his throat, wincing a little. "What?"

"To go up there and… do what you did." She cleared her throat while her voice remained quiet. "That was brave."

He bristled but couldn't find it in his backbone to sit up or in his heart to start a shouting match. "Are you insinuating," he growled under his breath, "that I am not capable of being brave?"

Her eyes flickered over when she detected his hostility, blinking. She struggled, wrestling to get up. When she got to sitting straight, she faced him, scowling. "What are you going on about?"

He sighed, frustrated and waved a hand dismissively. "Leave it."

Why did he even say that? Of course she wouldn't let it slide. He shut his eyes tightly. What did he expect her to say anyway? That she fully expected her to perform a Potter feat? Hardly. His past behavior could not possibly indicate that he was any type of hero, especially not to such a logical woman who had personal experience with his juvenile stunts and fear-enforced actions later on. He was no Gryffindor.

"No, tell me," she insisted and he saw it in the corner of his eye, when her hand reached for him and she stopped, curling her fingers inwards before firmly clasping it with the other.

"Was it hard to believe, what I did?" he drawled, running his fingers through his hair. This was the easy way out surely, going through with it in the shallowest way possible. Scratch the surface and allow her to believe that was all there was.

He snuck a look, seeing her nod her head in earnest, doe eyes wide. It would be quite an endeavor to be angry at such endearing solemnity. He shook his head slowly. "I'm no Gryffindor, Granger," he reminded her in half-hearted harshness.

She opened her mouth and he shook his head, a quick jerk this time. "Let's get you home," he interjected. He did not wish to discuss anything private with her, not after the night they'd had. _And maybe not at all_, he mused.

Was it really worth being dissected and scrutinized by this witch that he could not deny his attraction with, sexual to say the least, just so he could extract himself from the better-known portrayal of him as the Death Eater's son who was too cowardly to join the Light but also too afraid to commit murder and fall in line to uphold the pureblood worship? He could not do those things, and he had yet to figure out the reasons why. He was labeled a failure and he accepted it. Potter and the Weaslette had spent times convincing him otherwise, since they became friends, falling in an easy pattern, seven months ago. At least he slept better at night.

She tripped onto her feet when she saw him stand, his back to her. She frowned, displeased by how he had brushed a proper topic of conversation off but not at all discouraged. She needed to know.

He waved a hand as if to signify he was going to start walking. She took a step forward and stumbled. "Ow!"

He turned around in time to see her falling. In reflex, he sauntered forward, arms outreached and caught her. Looking down, he saw that she was still barefoot. How did he not notice that before this?

"I'm sorry," she stammered, steadying herself, clutching at the sleeves of his shirt. "My feet – I –"

"We'll have to Apparate you home," he put forward nonsensically, straightening her up as he noticed little scratches and what looked suspiciously like dried blood around her feet.

"But I –" Before her debate could present itself, he shifted her arms around her to her waist and turned on the spot, concentrating on the image of Granger's front door.

.

.

His mind was captured by a raging storm after they had landed safely and without being seen. He expected Granger to begin a reprimand on how it was unsafe to Apparate out in the open, about Wizarding Laws and their importance and how they play a role, how they should be upheld.

But as she pulled herself away from his convenient embrace and dodged him to her door, her hand reaching into the coat pocket to fish out her keys. They rattled in her shaking fingers, making her attempts fruitless as she tried to fit them into the keyhole.

"Oh, for Merlin's sake –" she exclaimed.

"Here, let me."

His fingers deftly picked the keys out of hers and inserted it, turning it in the lock and hearing the click. She hadn't moved from when she had turned to face him in surprise and was now pressed up against the door. His eyes flickered down, and there it was again, the twitch in his navel and the constriction in his throat.

She had her eyes shut, a small crease folding at the bridge of her nose as if she were concentrating. Her breathing was jagged, her chest rising and falling dramatically in a rhythm that was anything but controlled. He became hyperaware of the inch of space between their bodies and the aroma that was feminine and decidedly her own, laced with something distinctly like blueberries. Her full weight must have been supported by the wooden door behind her. While his left hand remained on the doorknob, he placed the other with a careful thud next to where her head was leaned back against. In reaction, her inhale was sharp and the crease deepened.

He turned the knob, pushing it open. She gasped when the door shifted, her eyes snapping open. He scooped her into his left arm before she fell backwards, feeling her nails claw at his torso as she attempted to steady herself for the hundredth time that night. Her fingers wound around the fabric of his shirt. His other arm had dropped to his side. By now, it was needless to say that both of their breathings were labored.

"I don't – un – derstand," she strung her words together with difficulty.

Her breath hit his collarbone, hot, challenging him not to shiver. He swallowed, his Adam's apple bobbing in his throat that felt incredibly raw, unbearably dry.

She could've sworn his eyes were darkening, smoldering like molten silver. Why wasn't he answering her? "Malfoy," she whispered.

"Granger," he responded automatically, not breaking the eye contact. Her eyes were captivating. He had never thought about falling into a girl's eyes before, always scoffing at the unrealistically romantic idea. And surely, he would not want to fall into mud – he wasn't implying her blood and heritage, but rather the color of her eyes. The boys and books had spoken about falling into the blue, a vast sea or a starlit sky. And with that logic, he quickly dismissed the idea of falling into Granger's eyes – _honestly, what even, Draco_.

"Why?"

"You're going to have to be more specific than that, Granger." But she didn't. He knew what she was asking about.

"You know what I mean." And she knew he knew.

"Can't you just drop it?" he stressed, the fingers of his right hand flexing as he just ached to brush back the curls that fell over her face.

"No," she breathed. She wanted to shake her head to better express her refusal but she was afraid it would break the spell. And she wasn't sure what spell this was. She was a grown woman, she reminded herself. She was a grown woman and she could accept that there were certain aspects that were _physical_ that couldn't really be _helped_ and Malfoy was just… attractive, that's all. Perfectly normal. Well, damn him and his good looks, honestly –

"Why?" he flipped the tables.

"Because I don't understand," she huffed irritably.

"What don't you understand?" he bit out, a frown curving his mouth downwards.

The spell was beginning to break. "Why you did what you did!" she hissed.

The arm he had snaked around her was retracted back to his side and he rocked back two steps. "What is there to understand?" he snarled. "How someone like me could pull of a stunt worthy of Saint Potter?"

"Don't talk about Harry like that!" she snapped, a furious stain on her cheeks.

"Why? He's my friend too. And I was actually his friend in the past year – whereas you had been off with your arse somewhere and not even answering his owls on time –"

She gulped, her eyelids sliding closed, a sign of her shutdown mechanism, and he knew he had nailed her on the right spot.

" – where did you run off to, Granger? How can you call me a coward when you up and left –"

Her eyes shot open and the fire in them was back. "I never said you were a coward – how dare you accuse me of –"

"Because you're a Gryffindor, is that it?" he sneered. "Maybe the Sorting Hat made a mistake, maybe you should have been in Ravenclaw with the rest of those sensible, prim and proper braniacs –"

"Luna was Ravenclaw –"

"And she wasn't fucking prim and proper, of course, _correct_ me –"

"_What_ is your problem?"

"You!" he yelled. "You and your questions! Can't you just leave it?"

"No!" she retaliated. "Then how do you get your answers!"

"YOU DON'T!" he exploded, his face contorted in rage. "YOU DON'T ALWAYS GET YOUR ANSWERS, GRANGER."

She took a step back, perhaps a little intimidated, her breath caught in her throat. He stared bitterly at the floor, his fingers twined in his hair. And there was a heavy silence before he broke it again.

"You don't, Granger," he echoed softly.

He did not wear a demeanor fit for a villain, not now. And she couldn't possibly… she couldn't push him off the edge. This was not the mean little blond boy back in Hogwarts. Maybe…

"Ginny said we should go out," she blurted out.

He turned to her, eyes wide but said nothing as his arms fell to his sides.

"I think… we can arrange for that," she said hesitantly, peering at him from under her dark lashes and chewing on her lip.

His eyes widened further. There was a long pause where the flush of her skin continued to darken by shades at the prospect of rejection after putting herself out there for Draco Malfoy. Then he nodded, and relaxed notably. He almost smiled kindly. She exhaled in relief, her eyes fluttering shut.

"7pm, we can meet here," she offered

As if back in his usual game, he coughed, causing her eyes to open a peek. He drawled jokingly, "I don't understand how it took you so long."

Her eyes narrowed and she backed into her house. "_BECAUSE YOU WERE ALWAYS THE BULLY_!" And the door was slammed shut. There was the click, signaling the locking of her house.

"Oh, for _fuck's _sake!"

"I'll see you on Saturday!" her muffled voice came from inside the door one last time before he rolled his eyes, fighting off a grin and Apparated away, to Potter's house as initially planned, with a "pop".

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><p>AN: I've written up to chapter 3 so far, so I'm not exactly sure when I will update the next chapter here. Any and all reviews will be appreciate (I really don't expect any, omg :O), thank you!


	3. Chapter Two

**Disclaimer: In its use of intellectual property and characters belonging to JK Rowling, Warner Bros, Bloomsbury Publishing, et cetera, this work of fiction is intended to be transformative commentary on the original. No profit is being made from this work.**

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><p><strong>Chapter Two: Alice<strong>

.

.

He arrived at the doorstep of Number 12, Grimmauld Place. His eyes dropped to the steps and his eyebrows shot up. The welcome mat sat on the top landing, a fiery red and gold, spelling out the word_ Potter_ in a bold, dark font.

_Excellent_, he grinned wolfishly. He stomped onto the landing, giving the mat an extra grind with the heel of his shoe. Two birds with one stone. Slytherin pride and all that. Just because he did not believe in blood superiority anymore doesn't mean the inter-house competitiveness had to go, not even when they were long graduated from Hogwarts.

Potter and he had a rivalry throughout their childhood and it remained, though it took a turn to become healthy. They had each other up to headlocks with taunts about their old houses and past achievements, dismissing the last years of stressful crisis, reliving Quidditch matches and arguing about lifestyle choices, Muggle versus Wizard – TV or no TV, cooking and cleaning with or without magic, Muggle clothing or wizards' robes. There was no contempt behind them, despite how much they escalated into feisty spits and ridiculous bets. One of the most momentous was when they were debating whether magic and machinery could cooperate which lead to a rather disastrous experiment in which they hexed a dishwasher, by theory, to be able to _scourgify_ the dishes, resulting in a bite-sized explosion and missing bits and parts of the dishes, leaving holes in the glass and Pyrex, while it spurted foamy suds as if being Conjured continuously for the next week even after being mended. He had gotten the right end of that stick, earning a good ten Galleons and a good story to tell and retell.

As he gave the mat another stamp for good measure, he noticed a black burn mark at the right bottom corner of it, rather too big for him to have missed it. He squinted at the smudge and saw a flashing, dark gold embroidery edged by the singe. He let out a short bark of laughter when he read it: "_& the Weaslette _" – oh, how he had rubbed off on the redhead.

He rang the doorbell – an electrical one, a contraption he spent a whole afternoon figuring out with Potter, ending up pissed like there was no tomorrow on his couch for the rest of the night till morning light. He had woken up with a blanket draped on him, courtesy of Ginny, and a loud, nagging reminder that he had been cursing the genius of Muggles until he had passed out. It was the beginning of a beautiful albeit unconventional friendship.

That was the second time he had visited Harry in his home. The first had been a rather awkward dinner, with Ginny glaring down at him with all the disdain of his father would've at a _Mudblood _at their dining table – what an irony it was.

.

.

It was last year, in July, that they had first been acquainted under fateful circumstances.

Draco had taken over his father's investments, a month prior when he met Harry Potter face-to-face since the War. Auror training for Harry had last only a single month, both because he was the Boy who Lived and because of the experience he had gained becoming the worthy of the title. He was two years into the work he did, rounding up old Death Eaters who had gone into hiding, but he was a wreck without Hermione Granger.

When they were placed officially on duty, unlike the conventional pairs, Harry had requested for his two best friends as his partners instead, remaining the famous Golden Trio they had been throughout the Second Wizarding War where they had fought alongside him till the very end. They were a fierce team, with unwavering loyalty and a strong sense of justice, and how symbolic and significant was it that they would be the ones to end the post-SWW's chaos and riots. The Golden Trio, indeed.

Granger was the brains, of course. She did her research, got her contacts, schemed, planned, argued with sensibility on her side and made sure everything was executed to perfection. _No collateral damage_, she would not risk it, not after the War and all that they had lost – no one could risk it. She studied meticulously, their conquests the headlines of the Prophet – completely faultless. She was fawned over, praised, on how she truly was the brightest Witch of their age. Her photos were plastered all over the papers, a strong look on her face that was nearly rigid, her eyes calculative but not exactly cold but the way she stood, it told a story about how she was a soldier, and a fine one at that. All that hard work must have worn her out – all that hard work must have been what sent her away, Draco was sure of it.

That and the Weasel.

They were an item, he was sure of it – the whole Wizarding world was sure of it. It was a sizzling hot topic on every printable surface, talked about in social events and in restaurants and coffee shops and stores, passed from ear to ear to ear, and so often into the ears of a very uncaring Draco Malfoy. It must have seeped in, this information he had no use for, that and the news of Harry Potter and Ginny Weasley.

There was no in-house detailed story of their breakup, just a quiet expression of disappointment about how the war hero and war heroine had sadly put an end to their relationship in the February of 2000. The article featured a photo of Hermione Granger hurriedly scurrying out of the Ministry building from the main entrance, face set in a stubborn expression that gave away her emotions more than anything, brushing off the hunting paparazzi without comment. It also noted a word from Harry Potter who had exited the building a few minutes after, chasing after her, quickly informing the press that she planned on leaving for Australia where her family is before remembering he was a Wizard and spun on the spot, disappearing to where presumed to be her flat. Somehow, it was very hard to believe that the article took up the second page of the Prophet and not the front with the buzz that it had caused and the number of hounding reporters – there must have been other privileges that came to being the Undesirable Number One, as Draco still called him time and time again, besides being photographed and interviewed all day. He had a hold on the people and Draco believed he was not afraid to use that advantage, not when it came to the ones he _loved_. Draco suspected he had thrown a few threats and "you owe me"s around and minimized the outburst it would have initially caused. Ah, Draco came to believe his tale of how the Sorting Hat deliberated placing him in Slytherin after all.

So she had taken off, and left Harry Potter with an angry, unforgiving Weasel. Draco had a feeling, from the ideas he was getting as far as the tabloids went to report, and the past observations of their relationship while they had been back in school, this was not the first time that the two had gotten it in and left Harry to be the messenger. What a mess he was. They had always gotten through their rough patches, hadn't they?

The whole Wizarding World expected them to be announcing a surprise engagement in the next couple of months to come – a commitment scare, they called it, cold feet – especially Molly Weasley, as interviewed by a number of journalists while blubbering into her hanky about how this was just a mistake and they would come around soon, "the silly children" and "their childish lovesick squabbles".

But Granger did not come home. She didn't come back to England, not to London, not back to the Weasley family home where she had been staying, not to Harry Potter and Ginny Weasley, not to Ronald Weasley. And weeks passed where he would be seen on the scene, losing his wits over firewhiskeys, getting into fights that did not want to be entertained by the opposition. The weeks stretched into a month, and the month dragged on to months, and he began to be spotted with random women, but he never did seem sober, and Draco wondered why the women even put up with such a front. He may've been quite the womanizer himself, but he did have the upbringing to at least have the dignity to be a gentleman about it.

Ginny had stepped out eventually, announcing that the Weasley matron was in shock and her words had no credibility. She had also added that her brother was going through a tough time with the breakup but there was nothing sudden about it, and if he was done being a prat about it, everyone could move on with their lives and stop sticking their noses into her best friend's business. Draco imagined that did quite the damage in the household, considering the previous drama from the unofficial beginning of the Second Wizarding War with Percy Weasley siding the Ministry instead of his family. All forgiven, yes, but he of all people understood that forgiveness did not automatically guarantee forgetfulness. Scars did not disappear overnight, not over days, weeks or months. They required attention, extensive daily treatment for them to heal and fade, just as the physical ones did.

After that, Weasel had called quits and left as well, to take a wild trip around Europe, with more of that alcohol and women he had been so keen on since Granger's departure. His face still surfaced on occasion, when he made a statement by partying too hard or selling stories of the trio's old adventures, while, in both cases, being incoherently pissed.

While he had been around, he hadn't been much help at all, with Harry and his job. From what he had heard, there were flaring tempers with all the tantrums thrown, and the times he came in hung over or had jealous fits over how Harry was receiving letters from Hermione were the worst. He was, in all earnestness, better off not showing up at all. At least then there was some order, and a way to get things done efficiently and without incidents occurring. One of Draco's favorite stories involve the Weasel jumping a woman with the same bushy brown mane as Granger did from behind and snogging her face off, she who turned out to be in her mid-thirties. The best part was how it ended, with her husband's fist against Weasel's nose. Now that he thought back about it, maybe he shouldn't have laughed so hard. Now that he thought back about it, it wasn't so funny. Seeing as he could've brought himself to blow their cover in pursuit of his deranged uncle, Rodolphus Lestrange, by bulldozing across the street because he saw a woman of the slightest resemblance towards Granger, Draco would rather not think of what would've happened if the woman were indeed Granger. She might have blasted him into pieces. Though that certainly is not a bad thought… It would be rather tragic for Potter though.

From the number of rants he had caught outside the kitchen of Grimmauld Place, Weasel stayed out of contact as far as family was concerned, with the clear implication that Harry was part of the family – the glue of it, by the sounds. Despite her good intentions, Weaslette was quite the firecracker. Her tendency of displaying tough love was disconcerting to most, though comforting to Draco – he would never admit – and undoubtedly to Potter as well. And even though Draco was sure her family was more than familiar with her ways, it was still not, deemed by most, a kind approach, and most definitely was not well-received. Draco was brought to think that it was Harry's love for her that pulled through. Of course, his love for the Wizarding family that stood by him with an admirable fierceness was rooted deeply as well, but if anyone had seen the way he just looked at the woman… Well, it was certainly enough explanation for his life itself.

Sometimes, Draco imagined that Potter would look at Granger with the same expression in his eyes – maybe even Weasley, because he knew that he owed them his life. Then again, Potter felt in debt to so many, both dead and alive, for his every heartbeat. Was that not the weight carried by the Chosen One of the Light? Draco snickered darkly. Yes, and he was the Chosen One too, wasn't he? For all the wrong reasons.

They were similar in one too many ways. Draco himself was in debt to some – but gratefully, none had quite simply died for him. He needed none of that on his already battered conscience; after all he had not been on a mission to save the world, quite the opposite. He owed a dead mean his life, yes, Severus Snape, there was nothing more to be done there, he thought bitterly as he revisited memories of his arrogance. He owed it to his mother who wanted nothing more to keep him safe and out of the Dark. But he had been too proud, eager to grasp this chance to impress, to serve a cause that was for the blind. He was such a child, so naïve with so much to prove. Even so, he knew, without a doubt, there wasn't a choice, that disappointment would be an easy excuse for the execution of him and his family. They would be murdered, with a quick Avada Kedavra if mercy was permitted, and probably never even buried. He pictured Fenrir Greyback with his canines and bloody front he presented with pleasure at every sighting and shuddered from the mere memory. But he had wanted to… he really wanted to…

He shook his head hard.

It was with this reason precisely he volunteered to be an informant, a valuable one at that, in the after-War round-housing, to put a heavy stamp on his guilt, but also because he owed it to all these people who fought fearlessly in the War for a cause he had not been able to stand for. He was promised anonymity by Minister Shacklebolt until the last of the ex-Death Eaters were brought into court. Shacklebolt even offered an Order of Merlin but Draco turned it down, requesting for continued obscurity even after the cleanup was completed.

Harry Potter was the only one who knew why Draco frequently docked by the Minister's office, though this information had been given to him not prior a year, around the time Granger left and the Wizarding World began to settle down into the former tranquility. It was convenient that his company had been appointed to fund the Ministry's course of action in rebuilding the community. Yes, July.

"Potter," he sneered, almost as a reflex.

The man looked just as what the eleven-year old had grown into and emerged at the Battle of Hogwarts, a man with purpose and a man with burdens, a man who aged from responsibility and a heavy-weighing understanding and short time. Precisely that, because he looked like more than the twenty-year old that he was. The bags under his eyes were dark and there were lines that looked deep enough to have been permanently etched into his skin, on his brow, around his eyes and at the corners of his mouth. He was as pale as Draco who had acquired a light tan in his stay at the South of France during the first two years after the War had ended, as soon as he was cleared of all charges. His eyes were a dark and murky green, not as bright.

"Malfoy," he muttered with disdain, giving him an once-over and scowling as it set in who he was seeing outside Kingsley's office.

Draco fed his news through owl if he could chance the interception with smartly written codes and a few Charms at hand as well, or a quick Apparition straight to the Minister's office every now and then, other than the Portkeys he was provided for their monthly meeting. Sometimes, Shacklebolt would venture to his cottage in France as well. But now that only a countable few supporters of the Dark Lord remained to be tracked down, Draco had decided to move back to the Manor. It was time he sorted things out, also, the company needed its head back, what with Lucius Malfoy imprisoned in a Dementor-less Askaban – he had been away long enough. His mother was homesick anyway, but he suspected, nothing at home was about to remain the same, and he was right – the first day they arrived home, she had the dungeons scrubbed and sealed to remain so forever.

So that day he had been invited to the Minister's office and had been officially relieved of his duties as a snitch so he could fully focus on developing the Malfoy company and support his mother in all her intent of demolishing the Manor, and with a handshake and pleasantries exchanged, he was out the door with promise that if he were to come over any significant information, he would nonetheless tip the Ministry off.

"What are you doing –" Harry began suspiciously.

"None of your business, Potter," Draco snipped, "Now, if you'll excuse me."

He indicated with an out-held right hand and a raised eyebrow that Harry should move so he could head down the hallway to the elevator without having to come in physical contact with him. Yes, they were way past the days where they thought of each other as vile, disgusting creatures, wasteful and unwanted around with their biased judgments but Draco would rather not get into it – into forgiveness and further understanding, to become acquaintances, never mind_ friends_. To be honest, it was best if they could just be on polite terms but even then, both of them had unresolved issues with the other brought from earlier days of scorn, misunderstandings and jealousy. Thus, despite Draco's hint, the weary man shook off his tiredness and glared at him in contempt, standing his ground.

Draco flexed his arms menacingly, grinding his teeth to keep order of his temper while showing him that he meant business. He had not had a good morning. He had been blinded by flashing cameras and swamped by demanding questions the very moment he made the mistake of Apparating into Diagon Alley to get in the old scenery before heading to the Ministry. He wondered if Pansy had let slip to one of her reporter friends that he was coming home because it certainly could not have been Blaise, and made note to ignore her owls for the next week because there was no other way to get to Parkinson than this.

"I'll ask you one more time. _What_. Were you doing –" Harry had taken a step forward, a grim expression clouding his face, triggering Draco to reach inside his cloak pocket.

"Gentlemen!" a booming voice interrupted, sounding stern and yet sustaining a deep soothing tone.

Stiffly, Draco turned around to see Shacklebolt, who was striding towards them with a carefully composed look on his face, and greeted him with a curt nod, his eyes stormy. He heard Harry shift and step forward to root himself next to him, and did the best to disregard the fact he stood in such proximity.

"Minister –"

"Kingsley –"

The two former nemeses whipped their heads sharply to face each other with their lips pressed together into tight grimaces, staring each other down before both of them attempted at the same time to speak again.

"Shacklebolt , can –"

"Kingsley, what –"

"_Boys_," Kingsley stated with no sign of impatience though with insistence, clapping a firm hand on each of their shoulders. The glare, however, did not lessen between the two, who were at the moment, no more than schoolboys filled with immense aversion towards the other. Kingsley sighed, giving them both a thud in their backs. "Boys," he began, to suggest an idea that was instantly loathed upon, "maybe we should have a little talk."

So they were ushered into the office where they were sat opposite to Kingsley, in identical seats with similar miens, where they did not, in fact, stay as a conversation of larger-than-life proportions unfolded with a prod from the kind and patient, yet thoroughly exasperated Minister, for Draco to recount his previous task as the Ministry's mole in the post-War activities. Draco did as prompted, hiding behind an emotionless mask, both his face and his voice, as he stared dead ahead at the tiny mark on the otherwise spotless enchanted window that showed deep soothing blue hues of a cloudless sky.

"That's why Greg's sentence was shortened," he deadpanned, rubbing his eyes which were exhausted from the strain he put on them by focusing on a single spot for the past, very long hour. "He was recruited by me somewhere along the way, in the particular pursuit for Macnair."

"We didn't get him," Harry interjected in a wary tone.

"_Fuck_, Potter, you make it sound like Greg's fault – _my_ fault," Draco growled, shooting him a look of angry disbelief. Had the man's ears not been open all this while? Were all his words gone unheard? He really hadn't needed to explain himself, after all. He gave Kingsley an accusing frown which was returned with a solemn stare.

"Well, if Goyle's information was false –"

"It was not _false_," Draco bit out. "It is not my fault _your men_ are_ incompetent_ –"

"They – _we_ are not incompetent, Malfoy –"

"Really now, Potter? The Lestranges! Macnair! Rookwood! –"

"I don't need a bloody name list and if I remember correctly –"

"Are you _sure_, Potter –"

" – the Lestranges are family to you, isn't that right now, Malfoy? –"

"No more than your _godfather_ was –"

"I think," Kingsley started loudly, causing the boys who had inched their hands closer to their wands at every line they threw at the other to fall back. There was a pause before he continued in normal volume, "I think you two would do best not to insult each other's intelligence. You have worked together for this cause – whether you'd like to consent to that statement or not remains not to be discerned. However, if you begin your reunion in such a way, clearly, it would not end well.

"I also think it's best to leave those who have been sacrificed out of these schoolboy fights," he added, without sparing Draco a glance or a smile.

Draco's cheeks pinked in embarrassment, like a chastened child, for he knew just how low below the belt he was hitting with his last comment, knowing that Harry was right about the Lestranges being family and even though Aunt Bella was now vanquished, thank Merlin, she had been Sirius Black's murderer. He nodded briskly, suddenly pushing himself up to a stand, feeling the unbearable need to leave immediately. A dimness overshadowed his eyes as he began to retreat into his safety, which in truth, was anything but harmless to him, because he was once again hit with the realization that he had faults to carry that were not even his own. These were the crimes and transgressions of the people he had once associated himself with or worse yet, were eternally bonded to by blood relations, but he made to accepted each and every one of them like a whiplash to his back and wore them like scars on a wrist.

"No."

He inhaled just as sharply as he had turned his head, to stare at the man who denied him his departure because he was not the Minister.

Draco wasn't sure what Harry saw that let on the sudden change of attitude but there was a deep blaze of understanding, or acceptance, or something in between the two, that lit earnestness in the green of his eyes. It might have been the same thing he'd seen when he'd swooped down on him and rescued him out of the Fiendfyre in the Room of Requirement three years ago. Or maybe he didn't need to realize anything, or come to terms with anything, because it was deeply rooted instinct to be uncovered in the strangest times without warning and without much thought at all – it was his heroism, his sodding Gryffindor heart. And it sickened the Slytherin, that this quality itself made him worthy to be descendant of Helga Hufflepuff. In the room was new found air, clogged and hard to breathe in, because it was overflowing with tolerance.

He did not need anyone's tolerance, he thought adamantly, which was only true in Opposite World. And he knew that he was wrong, stubborn and childish to think so but he couldn't stop the stiffening of his posture and the poker expression he masked on to his face.

"It's not your fault," Harry accentuated, looking him straight in the eye.

It sounded like a mantra, words for safekeeping, words he might have uttered to himself at night. It was the case for both of them. Were they really so different? With the weight of different worlds to bear, speculations of distrust to overcome, arrays of reputations to uphold and beat down, ridicules and old nightmares, and a life to live right now that had everything to do with what had happened, while even what they wanted, to live their lives now as the people they are now and not the growing children they had been, were the same, were they really so different at all?

But Draco would not accept it now, so he left anyway.

.

.

It took time to process things, to sort through his mind on his options and decisions, for he was no Gryffindor nor Hufflepuff, he was not bold enough to just assume Harry Potter's charity and he was not kind or fair enough to give his Slytherin self this chance.

But the next time Draco saw the man and he had offered him a nod and a "Malfoy" without the slightest condescension, he paused and returned the gesture.

Friendship was new to him, because while the Slytherin House loyalty was something that was wound tightly around every member, they were Slytherins, conniving and with ulterior motives, proud and sarcastic. They watched their own backs while trust was given selectively, and each learned and taught, in nasty, malicious ways, the lesson of how good friends, true friends, long-term friends were difficult to come by. Acquaintances were based on what was needed, based on social circles and family expectations. Thus, when Harry asked him out to a drink after a few weeks more of polite greetings as they passed each other in the Ministry for Draco was meeting with certain more accepting officials, each chosen with care by Kingsley himself, about funding the reformation of the castle of Hogwarts, he was apprehensive. More than apprehensive, he was –

"No," the word cuts through the thick confusion and the consideration half his mind had taken to, by impulse, a natural reaction to tick off _Potter._

If Harry had felt crestfallen for the slightest moment, it did not remain. It was replaced instead by a short huff and an almost silent "alright", as if he anticipated refusal. Draco, however, did not anticipate his counteract. When he realized it was not a sigh of resignation but renewed determination, it had happened.

With the flash of his hand, a glint in his eyes, a red light from his wand, down Draco went in rage, perplexity and indignation – but all these emotions lasted no longer than seconds, before he was out cold.

And when he came to, he was propped up at the counter in a relatively quiet pub, on the stool, wearing a pair of sunglasses. He craned his neck downwards, feeling a sore spot down his spine where he must've hit the ground, and saw that his cloak and coat had been removed, leaving him in his shirt and slacks. Only, they weren't black anymore but, the shirt turned green and his slacks turned grey.

"Fucking crutches!" he cussed, chucking the support that had him held up. His head pounded at the sudden angry movement.

He looked up and came nose to nose with a shot glass, like the ones they used for Firewhiskey. He sniffed the contents tentatively, realizing it wasn't anything he'd encountered before.

"It's tequila."

He whipped his head around so furiously he heard a loud crack and took out his frustration on the sunshades, throwing them to join the wrecked pile of metal, wood and plastic that must've broken from the force of his hurl.

"What do you think you're doing?" he fired at the man sitting comfortably next to him, nursing what looked like butterbeer, but couldn't be, because it became obvious to Draco that they were not in a Wizarding pub.

No one was unnaturally hairy or large – except for the man who stood at the door, who must've been security – or short – except for one surrounded by a good few rowdy buddies, looking out of place, who could not have been crossbred with a goblin or anything, just born with a defect – wearing long cloaks or speaking of politics he could comprehend. The atmosphere showed that this was someplace people just came after work hours to knock back a few before slouching off home to disappointed families, angry wives and hurt girlfriends. It radiated a toxic aura of despair and hopelessness, like life was just stringing everyone along and they were brought together here to drink to their lack of direction and sigh about their similar misfortunes.

Draco did not like this at all. And it was evident in his expression.

"What?" Harry muttered defensively.

"Why did you drag me out here?" Draco snarled, deciding not to stop there, but careful to keep his questions at a hiss and no louder. "Why did you Transfigure my clothes? Why would you be in a place like this? What happened to the Great Harry Potter? Honestly, I don't even –"

"What, I didn't bring you here to argue with you," Harry shot back irritably, signaling the bartender over to switch to the same colorless liquid in a shot glass that Draco had sat in front of him.

"Well, since I was kidnapped, the least I can do is put up a good fight!"

And they spent the first Thursday night they drank in a homey, remote pub together throwing insults at each other as they would have when they were thirteen, downing shot after shot of what Harry called tequila while the rest of the customers watched in amusement from the routine lack of entertainment as the two men got more and more incoherent and they questioned what brought two prodigals to speak of a school named Hogwarts with a headmaster that had a long white beard and broomsticks and a sport they've never heard of and an evil villain that could've ruined their lives with Dark magic.

The next morning, Draco couldn't remember how he had gotten home but had a vivid memory of the things he had spouted while he was in the Muggle pub. His mother never said anything at breakfast, just sipped her tea in a self-righteous manner that made his face burn with self-reproach.

But it became a practice, every Thursday; they would find each other in the pub called Riley's where the regulars greeted them familiarly and had a good laugh about what they thought was nonsense their drunken minds had fabricated before they settled down to another round after round of liver-killers. Their excuse for themselves every time they came back was that they didn't know who won, and they wouldn't stop until they've defeated the other. Just like good old times.

Eventually, the offenses burned out and they ran out of insults to throw at each other. The patrons found it no less comical the way they'd open their mouths as if to start off a new, strong argument and stop short, scowling as they realize they had nothing to say. It would seem that they slowly expired of any existing issues with the other. Because of this, they settled into a silence which its awkwardness ebbed away at an alarmingly speedy rate.

Soon, they were exchanging what would seem to be pleasantries. "How is your mother?" and "Oh, I'm sorry, I forgot, you don't have one," was one of Draco's most humiliating plastered phrases, which happened to be retold quite a few times, and sometimes on the same night. Whenever it happened, the crowd would groan and throw nuts at him, not only because it was repetitive but also because it was tactless. The customers were, in fact, good sports and kind men, with the occasional girlfriend who was just as generous in terms of a humor and thoughtfulness. They even got to know all their names at one point, before the drinks were served because apparently, they asked every Thursday night and never remembered the next time they were back.

After seven Thursdays, they knew the loudest of the audience was a group of eight office workers at a mortgage company two blocks from Riley's, Donald, Ricky, O'Malley, Ty, Peter, Andy, Mark and Gabe, all in their thirties and early forties except for Ty who was twenty-eight, who shared a flat with a repairman of twenty-two, Brian, who showed up sometimes with his girlfriend, Jenna and also, Ty's girlfriend, Bea, who also lived together.

"Hey, Drake!" O'Malley hollered from the center of the pub where three round tables were pushed together, where the gang always sat.

Draco bristled. _Drake_. Brilliant cover. Of course, Draco was not a common name and Potter got off easy with _Harry_ but Draco did not like it one bit. It was something he would name a _pet _dragon. Not that he would ever approach a real life fire-breathing dragon – he grinned at the memory of the Triwizard Tournament and made note to mention it later – but maybe in one of those computer game things that Potter speaks so highly of.

"Don't be a stranger!" Donald, the oldest of the group, laughed.

Draco gave them a half-hearted grimace, because, to tell the truth, they had grown on him in the previous weeks, then he turned to the counter where Harry and him always sat – but from the recounts of it while he was sober, they had transpired to dancing on it once – and took up a stool and a brooding air while the bartender, the son of the owner, Ethan, slammed a shot glass in front of him as usual, without him having to say anything.

"On the house, for the entertainment," he joked good-naturedly.

Draco merely quirked an eyebrow, trying to remain detached from all these amiable Muggles. Not that he had any trouble corresponding with any of them, all the prejudices had been rooted out of him. While he was in France, he didn't establish any contact more than "bon jour"s, "pardon"s and "merci"s. He visited the grocery stores, restaurants, parks and the streets from time to time when he needed to get out but most of the time, the shopping was done by the house elves and he preferred to eat at home anyway.

"'Malfoy!"

"Ah, the Pothead has arrived!" he drawled, turning around in the foreboding way an evil villain in the cartoons would as he'd seen once on the television back in France, stroking a cat and all.

And so it began, again.

.

.

Harry inhaled deeply, letting out a sigh straight into the shot glass that hung between his forefinger and thumb. "It's funny how someone's ego is attached to the way they look or the things they say or –"

"How much money they have?" Draco whooped in interruption, squeezing his eyes shut as he downed the tequila. Was it going to be one of those nights where Potter spoke of life lessons he did not need or want to hear about? Because he and Potter would not have a relationship that required unlocking years of insecurities by being straightforward and honest about them, admitting the mistakes and the fear that they'd felt about things that were easily beyond their control. They were children back then.

"How smart they are," Harry reasoned evenly, lips twitching.

"How much they can eat," Draco snorted, banging his glass on the counter.

"How many girlfriends they have hidden!"

"HOW MANY SCARS THEY HAVE ON THEIR HEADS!" Draco yelled, rising from his seat and stumbling before he grasped onto the counter. "AND I DON'T HAVE ANY HIDDEN GIRLFRIENDS."

Harry was more careful about standing up, gripping onto the counter just as Draco was. "Well, I only have one scar," he replied evenly, looking a little green. Draco smirked, knowing his levelheadedness had everything to do with his attempt to prevent himself from upchucking.

"Hermione always said you were jealous of me," Harry added, retaking his seat.

Draco plunked back down and snorted, staring down at the little swirls of the imitation marble that made up the countertop. He did not deny it, only because of his lack of sobriety, and not his honesty, as he realized the next morning that Harry had spoken the truth after all – the Brightest Witch of their Age indeed, what a friend to have. Instead, he got confused with his muddled mind thinking of how this person Harry had just mentioned had been missing for a great deal of time now. What a curious thing. He of all people knew how unaccountable the media was, so he asked, "Ah, that _witch_ – where is she now?"

Harry had given up his , and Draco stared at it. Ginger ale. _Well, then, guess we aren't getting completely stoned tonight. That will be a strange change._Draco hailed for Ethan and switched to water.

"Well," Harry paused, unsure of where to begin. He pressed his fingers to his temple, nursing a premature hangover. "Well, she's in Australia."

Draco nodded, just like the papers said she would be. "How did the reporters keep from going after her anyway? Aren't there Wizarding communities in Australia anyway?"

"She's in Melbourne," Harry offered, then shrugged. "She doesn't want to be found, so she won't."

Draco looked at her best friend skeptically. "Right. Brightest Witch of our age and all that."

"It's true, you know," Harry defended.

"Yes, I know," Draco said simply. "I resented her for that."

Harry nodded, either mulling over this piece of information or swallowing his earlier food. And they fell quiet.

"Oi! Where's the show!"

And laughter broke out, causing their ears to ring and their mouths to turn down into a frown.

"Oh hush, Mark, for all you know this Hermione girl in Australia – maybe they're in love, oh!" Jenna sighed dreamily.

"Who's in love now?" Ty asked, confused.

"Drake and the girl!" Bea rebuked, and there was a sound of a slap, suggesting she slapped his arm, which she did a lot.

That's when Harry started laughing, loud and belly-deep.

"What?" Draco glared at him, spitting out the question scathingly.

In the background, the boys cheered, "_There's our show_!" followed by the disappointed groans of the two ladies.

"I was just –" Harry chortled, wiping the corner of his mouth and Draco stared, disgusted, thinking that he must've spat. "Third Year – oh, Merlin – Do you remember –"

Draco did, and he blushed, staining his cheeks a snowy pink. "No," he defied.

Harry continued to laugh, until Draco gave him a black eye.

On the floor, Harry seemed to have no energy to do anything but continue to wheeze with glee. Draco rolled his eyes, realizing that despite his efforts, Harry was already too far gone with the tequila. He reached out a hand to help the poor man up, which was accepted. While he struggled to get back on his feet, Harry asked with all the seriousness he could muster, "Come to dinner at my place."

Draco was so caught off guard, he nodded, startled, and then was invited to Grimmauld's Place for the first time the next night, where at dinner, Ginny played innocent while Draco choked on the saltiness of the baked fish he was served.

.

.

Hermione was drowning in the shower.

.

.

"Potter!" Draco shouted at the foyer tentatively. He listened for a reply and found none. "Potter! Weaslette!"

Nothing.

"Harry! Ginny!" he tried again, taking a few steps forward. He would've heard something by now if the two were up to something he oughtn't and really didn't want to know about again. "Harry Potter!"

He marched to the sitting room to find it empty, everything the way it always was, nothing unusual at all. He inched his way to the kitchen, where he realized, the Pothead and Redhead spent much too time in. He heard a sharp _bang _of furniture and that was it, he was out of the place, sauntering as quietly and as quickly as possible because it wouldn't really be worth the investigation if his suspicions were right. He promised himself to be back in half an hour. He was sure they would be done with whatever they were doing by then, he thought with a grimace. They were welcoming enough whenever he came with nightmares as parents would be to their child at any time of the midnight, thought most of the time Draco wasn't coherent enough.

He needed a cold shower after that encounter with Granger anyway.

.

.

Hermione was drowning in her bed, fighting with her sheets.

.

.

He remembered that Potter had adjusted the Apparition wards of his home a few weeks ago so he Apparated straight into the sitting room where he found the owner on the couch, stroking his girlfriend's ginger hair.

Harry's head snapped up at once, his hand sliding to Ginny's shoulder to give it a squeeze. Her eyes fluttered open and she bolted up into sitting position straight away, her hands folding together in her lap. Draco raised an eyebrow at the reaction.

"Draco!" Ginny greeted, standing up and going forward to give him a hug.

Still not entirely accustomed to the intimacy, he returned the gesture as best as he could.

"Malfoy." Harry gave him a hard slap in his back. "We've been waiting for you."

"Really?" Draco muttered, extracting himself from Ginny's arms, and giving her head an awkward pat to smooth out her hair which was sticking every which way from her nap on Harry's lap. "Because I was here half an hour ago. And I heard something in the kitchen," he said it as matter-of-factly as he could manage.

Ginny blushed a furious red, as only the Weasley's could achieve.

At this, Draco's brows shot up a good inch, because the Weaslette was never shy about her appetite and her activities, always a little provocative at the least.

"What," Draco enunciated, "are you not telling me?"

Harry shook his head, speaking for the both of them, indicating that they would not speak of the matter now. Not yet. They did this sometimes, withhold information until they see fit to explain the situation. It wasn't from the lack of trust, as was elaborated once when they had a dispute about the matter, but from the need to confirm absoluteness of their news or from planning surprises. Draco refrained from scowling. All in good time, yes.

"So do you want to hear about what happened with Bushyhead Granger?" Draco changed the subject before aggravation rose, and he dropped to the armchair where he normally took his seat.

"Ooh, yes!" Ginny assented, settling back down on the sofa next to Harry who smiled easily.

.

.

Hermione was drowning in her work. Papers and books, quills and ink bottles and pens, piling up and around her, building a fort, a hurricane of disorganization as she focused on breathing, pinching the bridge of her nose.

The meeting with Draco Malfoy had disoriented her again. Her sureness was ripped like a carpet from underneath her feet, sending her flying forward into uncertainty, and she did not like it one bit. It had taken her quite some time to adjust to where she was just a few hours ago. Not in Australia where things can be gently put aside while she rested her mind and soul and heart and fixed the very fabric of her scarring until she could bear them again. Not with her parents who treated her no less like their little girl and caring for her while she cared for them. Not with Harry and Ginny in their home, watching them bicker and throw sarcasm at each other and love each other underneath it all. Not with the Weasleys at the Burrow for dinner, where loss was carried in a quiet way, never to be forgotten and life was celebrated for what it was, never to be forsaken. Not with Ron. No Ron.

She had tried to throw herself in her work. But there was something distinctly different about writing reports and calculating numbers and drawing graphs from painting a picture and writing a poem or a song and dancing. The work she did was an oppression of her emotions. She was stomping at them, cutting them off, forbidding it to resurface at it had so many times. It was the same back in the days in Hogwarts with Ron – she had always ended up crying at some point.. Because she didn't have the dainty brushstrokes of an artist or the poetry of a writer, she had no outlet, no expression. She had her facts, her indisputable knowledge. More a journalist than a novelist; more an agent than an artisan; more someone who walked in straight lines instead of skipping or waltzing or floating down a sidewalk – yes, it failed her now, she had tried to comfort herself with logic, with experience, with words from books that wrote of how her distress will pass, because she could not let it out. She had work to do, with no time to be trying out pottery or sculpting or trying to put words together that rhyme. Yes, work. She picked up a quill, inhaling as deeply as she could.

_Work, Hermione, work_.

.

.

"So what, she just asked you out just like that?" Ginny laughed in disbelief.

"I hope it wasn't pity," Harry joked and got elbowed in the ribs by an angry Ginny.

Draco rolled his eyes, too tired at four in the morning to be insulted, especially when the Weaslette was already offended for him. It was true too; he hoped it wasn't from pity, though he couldn't explain why yet. The shower he took a little earlier did nothing to help that matter.

Harry perked up from wincing and holding his ribs all of a sudden, worry evident on his face. "Wait. You said, her feet were scratched –"

"Oh, Harry, they're just scratches! Hermione can take care of herself," Ginny soothed.

Draco was reminded to be guilty. He had wanted to heal those cuts for her since he was the reason she had run down a good few blocks and gotten thrown into lockup, being mistaken as a call girl – he had tactfully let this part of the evening out of the conversation, though if Ginny were to ever find out, she would have his head on a platter for keeping such entertaining information from her, as well as anything that would've suggested he was genuinely interested in Granger, which he was not. Then he had said something stupid, even if it was a joke and she had slammed the door on him, even if it was all good fun, and he left her injuries unattended to.

"Could you," he began and stopped, unsure of how to voice his request.

Ginny studied his expression silently, contemplating something before she stood up. She had a small, pleased smile playing on her lips as she made to get the Floo powder and Draco did his best not to analyze that, what she must be thinking now. "I'll check on her."

"C'mon, let's get you a drink," Harry offered, ushering him into the kitchen, his eyes twinkling.

No doubt the Weaslette wanted a private conversation with Granger. She didn't get what she wanted though.

She wandered into the kitchen, two minutes later, wide-eyed, as she delivered the news, "Hermione's not home."

.

.

Hermione had no idea what she was doing.

She threw the Floo powder into her fireplace and shouted her destination as clearly as she could, still unsure of what she planned to do when she got there. She stepped out of the fireplace, dusting herself off and glancing around the familiar room, hesitant all the same.

There was no one else around. It was quiet, except for the tick tock of the grandfather's clock.

She climbed the stairs, each step careful because she didn't want to alert anyone of her presence; all the while, she questioned her presence in the place at all. Her heart thumped heavily, crushing her ribs in her chest, extracting the breath out of her because she really knew where she was heading after all. What was she going to do? What was she –

She pushed open the door she had been reaching for and it creaked on its hinges.

She whispered his name and the sound came out strangled by the lump in her throat. She cleared her throat and tried again, "Ron?"

He stirred, confused by the voice that was calling him. He sat up slowly, his brow crumpling in concentration as he tried to discern his surroundings, the time, maybe the month or the year – _what was she doing here_? Because she did not belong to reality. She belonged in old dreams and memories and a time that had long passed.

She took a step forward, cautious. The low bit of lighting from the window of a rising sun somewhere far off and the moon that still hung up in a grayish blue veil of the sky granting access to sight. There were tears in her eyes and uncertainty in his. But there was no hesitance when she dove for him and he opened his arms, because there was something in the air.

At dawn, it smelled of regret. It smelled of apologies and comfort and a disregard for consequences.

He cradled her, rocked her into forty winks, where she fell into dreams of a strange, distorted reality, beginning in a time when things were without the need for mending, alright, and assumingly perfect between the two of them, like Alice fell down the rabbit hole.


	4. Chapter Three

_This chapter is made up of flashbacks._

**Disclaimer: In its use of intellectual property and characters belonging to JK Rowling, Warner Bros, Bloomsbury Publishing, et cetera, this work of fiction is intended to be transformative commentary on the original. No profit is being made from this work.**

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter Three: It was Just a Paper Bag<strong>

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"Ronald Weasley!"

He mumbled incoherently, tossing a warm cocoon in the sheets. His boyish charm was magnified in his sleep, a look that was a cross between peacefulness and dreaminess, as if he was not rooted on Earth as she was. She wished she slept like he did. So she took the moment to admire his gift.

She folded her arms on the edge of his bed that she shared, fully dressed and awake with her knees on the floor. It had been three weeks since the War had ended. She slept fine, the first week, in her old dorm in the Gryffindor tower while they helped with recovering the damaged and patch up the castle best as they could, before reconstruction would be conducted, as a temporary home for those who had nowhere else to go. She slept well, mainly from exhaustion and a sense of safety and serenity, that f_inally_, it was over. By the second week, she returned to the Burrow with Ron and Harry and the rest of the Weasleys – what was rest of the Weasleys, she thought wistful – and her body had shaken off its tiredness, and the nightmares began to reach out to her. They lasted short moments, morphing from butterfly-type dreams into a vivid reliving of the darkest days while she was in hiding in the ongoing war, until she woke up in cold sweat and nudged Ron so he would soothe her back to dreamland, and before she knew it, there would be morning light. By last Tuesday, the nights seemed to stretch out like a marathon and she had no stamina to run it. Ron was as tired as she was, and last night when she tried to shake him awake after a particularly bad dream about Bellatrix, he merely groaned and rolled away from her. So she had been awake since then.

Of course, he wasn't to blame for her predicament, or his lack of tact in slumber. Even if he was, she couldn't find it in her to be angry at him. _Ah, sweet, young love_.

"Ron," she whispered, pushing his red hair back from his forehead.

"Go _away_, mom."

Her mouth dropped open, affronted. She picked up her pillow and smacked it on his face, suffocating him by pressing her whole weight onto it.

"'Mione!" he gagged from under the pillow. "'Mione! Was. A joke!"

She sniffed reproachfully but lifted her pillow to glare at him through narrowed eyes. He gave her a breathless grin that sent butterflies aflutter in her stomach. She blinked repeatedly from the effect and didn't even see it coming with her war-trained instincts when he sent his pillow flying towards her face.

She let out a short laugh before the pillow fight was fully commenced, and they showered each other with feathers.

It was one of her best memories, one of those that were replayed like montages with swelling music of a string quartet and muted sounds, or a slow motion scene with a soft tinkling soundtrack in the background, nothing overpowering, nothing to distract the essence of what this moment was about – love, happiness and hope, in all its simplest. It was the laughter, his low and sincere, full of mirth and hers high and thrilling, full of promise, that surrounded them, enveloped in life by the rays radiated from the sun that streamed through the windows in curious patterns of shadow and light, interrupted by their figures in the fluttering feathers that exploded out of their abused pillowcases, filling them up with warmth and a confident faith towards how the here and now will not fail to bring them to a bright tomorrow, where they would be, ultimately, together, and as they were now, in love. It was what it felt like to be alive, to feel the blood coursing through your veins in the most delicious sense, with nothing but a positive surge, no fear, no insecurity, no pain. It was such a rarity, it was so precious.

He managed to overpower her, and she lay underneath the heat of his weight, still overcome with giggles that were coaxed to an end with the kisses he peppered across her features, leaving a trail of warmth that seeped through her skin and spread across her being.

"Oh." They both turned in their warming intimacy to see Ginny at the door with a conflicted expression on her face. Then she gave a laugh, as if she shouldn't and thus, wouldn't care about what she just witnessed. "Get a room!" she sniggered at the obviously unneeded remark.

And each of the two lovebirds snatched their pillows and threw it to the closing door. As it clicked shut, the laughter was reignited, resounding in the Burrow and everyone downstairs in the kitchen smiled in very different ways.

This was their room. This was their home, and there would be none other, for many, many years to come, they thought. Surely. Surely, because this felt right. Surely, because they were sure. And as the smell of a mouthwatering breakfast wafted into their room, Ron's expression swapped to a different kind of hunger and Hermione laughed as she identified it, tapping the end of his nose with her lips in affection, in familiarity. Oh, they were so sure.

.

.

The truth was, a week ago before that day with the shiny memory, she was supposed to have gone somewhere. The trip was long overdue.

And yet, after another week, she sat on the floor with her back to the armchair, with a heavy book on her lap on Memory Charms.

"Hermione?"

Harry. "I'm trying to concentrate," she dismissed him with her tone.

"Hermione, we need to talk," he insisted and must've taken a step forward for he sounded nearer.

"No, Harry," she hissed, turning the page with an aggressive flick.

"_Hermione_."

She slammed the book shut, whipping around to give him the nastiest look she could muster, distracted by a storm in her mind that was blown to a start from the rage in her heart. Outside, the rain fell in a rhythm that could not be discerned, overlapping drops and dashes, loud on the lighter things and soft on the steadier ones, on the floor, only to fade into a faint pitter-patter and resume its former drumming spectacle. Hermione's heart performed a similar interlude, and she suffered in its wake, struggling through every thump and slam against her ribs, as it cried out in conscience, in guilt, in fear.

Harry tore it right out from under her ribs, that's what it felt like, a right gash inside of her from the sheer force of her beating, mourning heart. The reprimanding tone, the urgency, it sounded too much like the one she had been squeezing dry from her head. She felt so angry, so angry. But she wasn't angry at Harry, so she could not justify why she, with her fresh-out-of-war strong arm and sharp aim, threw the heavy book of Memoirs of Memory Charms by Elena Darwick at him.

"Oh my –"

Lucky for both of them – him for his lack of a broken nose or possible head injury and her for her brewing remorse and fueled self-directed anger – he had fresh-out-of-war reflexes and caught it before his glasses were sent askew. He blinked in surprise before he chucked the book onto the floor before flopping onto the armchair that supported her.

Tears had leaked from the corner of her eyes and dripped like little glass drops that skimmed down her cheeks to her chin to detach themselves from their creator in her distress, at the tip of her chin. Harry sighed as Hermione started to cry, and he slid out of the chair onto the floor next to her with his right arm extended where she tilted sideways until her head landed on his shoulder to be tucked in the crook of his neck so it was not awkward. He was tempted to rock her out of her bout of water works because he hated seeing her upset, over something she had sole control over. It was self-deprecating and unsuitable for one such as his best friend. She might have always mulled over details and plotted steps meticulously with precautions taken in her paranoia, anxiety and wariness against the odds, but action was fitting for Hermione – she sprang into action, taking matters at hand and solving the worst of the problems best as she could. She was a fighter, even in those days where she mourned the lack of return of Ron's affection and his tactlessness – for how else could their friendship have remained intact?

She was a Gryffindor, but he didn't think it timely for him to remind her now. It would be a mockery of her constant strength and bravery that was absent in this brief moment of weakness. So instead, he held her and let her emit her sadness in waves. He did not even offer any words of comfort because he wasn't quite sure what to say, just like those days where Ron had walked out on them while they were on the run. But also because they would not help. She didn't need a savior. She needed to do what she needed to do; she just needed to be ready.

Ron scuttled into the room just then, taking an abrupt stop at the sight of his girlfriend crying into his best friend's shoulder. And when his cerulean eyes met Harry's, it glinted in some overwhelming emotion that they both had no name to. Because as they recalled, the old feelings of unease in Ron had been settled, he had to be sure by now.

So what was this?

Hermione wiped her eyes when she noticed Ron and gave him a watery smile which he returned uncertainly. Even though the uncertainty melted away as she stood albeit unsteadily and crossed the room to wrap her arms around him and sniffle into his neck and he gave a smile to Harry somewhat apologetically and gratefully yet relieved at the same time, the root of doubt had been planted however shallow the penetration. So unbeknownst to the two locked in an embrace in the old Burrow's sitting room, murmuring comfort to each other, with the rain a softening dialogue on the roofs, the windows and the ground, that was when it began to fall apart.

That was when the old mended scars began reopening despite their efforts to seal them off. They were different – a layer of skin cells renewed, unable to hold together and cracking in odd lines to reveal a familiar wound in a new light.

.

.

"Come _on_!" she urged, hurry and impatience evident in her demeanor. She jumped in her stance from one foot to the other as she laid her palms on the map that was spread across the kitchen table. Her nails clawed at the paper, adding creases into the already existing patterns in her dwelling with her racking nerves as she scowled at the opening of the staircase.

Harry stood nervously, shuffling his feet with his eyes downcast, leaning on the doorframe of the exit to the garden. He did not want another fight between his two best friends, that much was clear to Hermione. Though it was understandable to Harry as well, why the bickering had intensified throughout the week as they counted down the days in which she soothed herself from any more tears and qualms, and acknowledged that she could not secure herself any guarantees as to the damage that the Memory Charms may have already caused or would cause when she broke them, by bidding her time and eating up books as an ineffective medicine for her anxiety and fears. For all she knew, the longer the period of time spent without their memories, the harder it would be for the Grangers to reaccept them into their vaults – thus moving into to achieve what she had been afraid through her need and desire to do.

Hermione was antsy, if not a little prickly because she was worried about many pressing matters – _would there have been any brain damage_, she asked, _would the memories be received well_, she asked, _would they receive what she did good intentions aside if they remembered_, she asked, _what if they never remember her_, she cried, _what if they go into shock_, she screamed. Ron, on the other hand, had been flattering enough not to doubt her abilities and was nervous about being introduced as Hermione's boyfriend to her parents for the first time. Incensed by the fact that Ron did not even share her concerns on her parents' well-being – or her sanity – and not at all seeing his confidence in her as flattery but as mere nonchalance and, oh, how typical of him and his inclination to be a tactless fool, he couldn't understand how she was not the least bit bothered about bringing back Ron as a boyfriend to meet her family, there were no little explosions between the two. _Boyfriend_, he spat the word, _boyfriend_. And she had rolled her eyes, _yes, that was a big deal, wasn't it_.

.

The tantrums ran high and havoc was wreaked upon the Weasley household. The two had rather an interesting – interesting and nauseating – method that was reminiscent of the Cold War. George had taken to secluding himself into his room to experiment for new products alone, which was a difficult experience to be going solo for the first time, and having Ginny slide in food through the amazing discovery of a cat flap installed in his door. Percy who had already moved out of the house previously was glad to have excuse not to visit home as much because of his new girlfriend, Audrey, who was moving in with him. Fleur forbade Bill from bringing her to any more family meals until _ze two children 'av réconciliés an' grown up because zis is absurde _and she would not be subjected to another dinner in which she had to pass the potatoes to Ron to have it passed to Hermione but have him pass it back to her and levitate it over – potato bits in her hair! Ron had deliberately knocked it over! Mr. Weasley and Harry managed best as they could because Mrs. Weasley and Ginny were fiery enough in their fervent and unrelenting process of trying to thaw out the chill in the house by scolding some sense into the tense couple.

Hermione had moved into Ginny's room, leaving Harry on the living room couch because he was unwelcome in Ron's room. The fight that had led to this change in sleeping arrangements had been the most intense Harry had experienced between his two best friends. It had been unnerving, ripping the already torn couple further apart, driving a wedge of an ice block, and in their separation, no matter how shallow in outlook, leaving behind the snowiest October.

.

"What do you mean, it doesn't matter!" Ron yelled, the veins in his neck jutting out.

"It doesn't, Ron!" Hermione retaliated with nothing else to add, no explanations, her hair thrown into frenzy when she shook her head hard, squeezing her eyes shut because she was so tired of fighting.

But so was he, with the darkening purple circles under his eyes. He glared at her, willing the venom in the blue of his eyes to speak volumes of his contempt for him instead.

She had opened her eyes and there was a familiar expression on her face. It was a hopeless expression, a lack in the Gryffindor flame in the brown of her irises, parted lips and audible breathing, with her brow crumpled. It was the same expression of despair she wore a year ago. It was reminiscent of the visible hurt he had caused her back when he decided to uproot himself from their hideout camp in the woods while on the hunt for the Horcruxes. _Hopeless, helpless_, it screamed, the reddening eyes and nose, paling skin, half-frown and gathering tears. Because she knew there was no convincing him, no changing his mind. No, he would not listen, not with any amount of persuasion from her, if she were to plead or beg. Oh, that temper of his and his one-sided mind. And she could not bend to his choice and will. Stubborn, so stubborn, the both of them.

This time she would not beg, no.

She inhaled through her mouth and closed it, blinking the tears away with a slow dropping of her lids before a harder demeanor set in like stone. She cleared her throat, a disturbing scratching sound that suggested a lump of proportions, and when she spoke, she whispered, "Maybe I should move in with Ginny."

Ron's eyes widened only a fraction before the glare returned, threatening to burn her alive and his mouth pressed into a hard line. "Yeah, maybe you should."

She swallowed, nodded and turned on her spot at the bottom step of the stairs, but not before she saw that he turned away first. She climbed the stairs as steadily as she could. to go to his room and gather her things.

She paused at the second landing, beads of water free-falling from the brim of her eyes, but she wouldn't call it crying, not really. She was hesitating, not sure she wanted to go down this road. It would be different from the previous kicks and scratches they had from their schooldays, and she was sure she couldn't take twice what happened last winter.

"Does that mean I'm moving in with you?" she heard Harry ask in an agitated tone, almost sarcastic.

"No," Ron answered in a clipped tone that grew louder into a snap as he added, "Sleep on the bloody couch for all I care."

She heard the thump of Ron stomping up the stairs, just two heavy, angry thuds, and she knew he jumped two steps at a time, knew the way he did it when he was upset, whenever they bickered or when Harry and Ginny or George and Charlie made fun of him.

She smiled a sad one. Yes, she knew him like the back of her hand.

She knew he would reach her soon so she jerked forward, up to his room as quickly as she could to pack her belongings and flee into Ginny's room where she would find refuge in the younger girl's arms. She decided then she would not allow a reenactment of his leave ten months ago while on the run, she nodded to herself. But she had no idea how she was going to do that.

It was, after all, such a silly thing they were fighting about.

.

What she turned out to do, however, was fight. She fought, tooth and nail, because she had to make him see how much it mattered to her, what had by gone, and how she would take responsibility for the choices she had made, despite her former reluctance to begin cleaning up herself after the War ended. She was late to admit to herself that she really just wanted him to care and comfort her. She wasn't crazy enough to call him selfish. But he was quite self-absorbed, in the simplest way possible, she realized, so she would be damned if she didn't give him hell for it.

She understood that it was like the pot calling the kettle black. But she did understand Ron's concern. However, it was highly uncalled for. Her parents already knew about Ron, or at least her mother did, while his father glossed through the mother-daughter moments. So if the reversal of the memory charm was to go smoothly, an introduction was far from something to be bothered about. She was adamant that, instead, they should be putting their efforts into tracking her parents down, arranging transportation, studying the possible side effects or problems that might be met and ways to correct them, and finding a foolproof way of approaching them and then lifting the memory charm. She was also considering methods of explaining what she had done, why she had done it and along with that, wondering with vehement unsureness about whether or not to tell them the whole story of what she and the rest of the Wizarding World had faced. The truth was that she left out many details about her adventures and mischief with Harry and Ron back in the day, not wanting them to worry and possibly revoke her from Hogwarts and her right to a life in the magical realm out of goodwill. _Would they ask?_ she wondered, and then decided that she would just have to find out.

.

"Calm down, Hermione," Harry soothed, encircling the curve of her shoulder with an arm to attempt to root her to the floor.

Hermione swore Ron threw the both of them one of the dirtiest looks he had ever summoned and she fumed, knowing jealousy was an old friend and he had come knocking, the green-eyed monster. She glared at him with narrowed eyes and whipped her head around. She didn't need a childish fight today, not that she was childish of course! _He _was!

She returned to the map before her. "They're in Melbourne. There's a house under the name of Wendell and Monica Wilkins," she recited, mainly for her benefit but pretending as though Harry had not heard the first thousands of times. "In Glen Iris."

"'E hear' you 'e firs' million 'imes," Ron grumbled through the toast he was stuffing into his mouth and giving her a glare that wasn't quite to poisonous standards in such a state.

Hermione inhaled, squeezing her eyes shut. _Yes, well, I swear no one could hear you with your munching_, she thought vehemently, wishing she hadn't promised herself not to take a swing at him today.

"We're leaving," she said instead.

.

They stood at the door of a brick house, its walls wrapped in a serene green of vines with the ivy that had crawled up and over them and surrounded by a small garden with well-trimmed bushes and a big apple tree at the back, and a patio at the side. It was exactly how Hermione envisioned it. They used to talk about a house like this, for retirement.

Ron had strayed, staring at the dirt that was overturned when the classic red postbox with the word Wilkins painted on its face was spiked into the ground two feet from the pavement. Harry stood dutifully at her side, only a little nervous, but willing himself not to show it any more than a little kick of his feet and the clenching and unclenching of his fists every now and then.

She inhaled deeply and gave Harry a nod which he returned, his green eyes piercing. "Remember, you have to help me stun them," she whispered.

In response, he reached out and took her hand, giving it a light squeeze.

She rang the door bell, and it was the timeless _ding-dong_ that gave first answer. She reminded herself that there were no records or articles showing the death of the Muggle couple named Mr. and Mrs. Wilkins and she had tracked them down with magic, ensuring this was where their auras led her to, with belongings passed down by her parents. So they had to be alive. But she couldn't shake the feeling, like a bottomless pit in her stomach, that there was still a chance they could've… no, she couldn't think like that –

Sounds were heard from beyond the bright red door with a window of glass, cups being put down in their saucers, chairs being pushed away, someone standing up, someone approaching the door… Hermione returned the squeeze then, making it almost painful for Harry, she was sure.

The door clicked open and it was pulled back halfway to reveal a woman.

Hermione let out a sigh of relief, she was sure she would've choked.

The woman was in her forties – forty-five to be exact, Hermione knew – with curly hair atop her head in a bun, the color of chocolate and eyes to match. Her clothes were as Hermione would've known her to be dressed in from before, and her smile didn't change either. This comforted Hermione and scared her at the same time.

"Yes?" her mother asked her kindly.

She swallowed the lump in her throat and blinked back tears, for she wanted to seem confident and not distressed. "Mrs. Wilkins?"

The elder woman, a picture of Hermione, nodded and seemed to do a double take as she gave the girl before her a second glance. Maybe she noticed the resemblance between the two. She was hesitant as she opened the door further.

Hermione saw inside was something quite similar that of what was in the home she had known back in London. Palettes of brown and a little green and blue or purple and pink here and there, it lacked color perhaps because of the lack of a child in this home that her parents had come to know, and as far as they knew, there was no other. She was saddened by the thought and immediately more determined – she was here to right this.

"May we come in? We're moving in next door, you see, my husband and I. We're the new neighbors," Hermione lied, hoping the smile that felt estranged on her face was more believable than she thought.

"Oh, I hadn't realized that the Labries had moved out! Oh, Wendell!" Aubrey Granger – of course only Hermione knew this called her husband.

Hermione felt a twinge of uneasiness and guilt when she realized how gullible her parents were, how gullible she had left them. Something could have happened to them. Harry might not be safe, she realized with a fluttering of her heart and she tightened her grip on Harry's hand, causing the man to nudge closer to her a little. What if the Death Eater's had approached her parents? What if what they did to them was worse than death? The Imperius –

Matthew Granger appeared from what seemed to be the dining room, exactly as Hermione remembered and her suspicions became lost, and so did her heartbeat.

The sight unfolded like a beautiful memory but so real, so _present_, right in front of her, as her father reached out for her mother and folded his arms around her shoulders, his tall figure framing her smaller one with his hands clasped in front of her as they both smiled the way they always did, right at her. Maybe it had lost its depth, of love and affection and care and years of old stories and experience, but Hermione could pretend, couldn't she?

She was gaping like a fish out of water.

"We're the Wilkins as you can see on the mailbox there," Mr. Granger – no, Wilkins – joked before he noticed Ron still rooted there, staring at the four of them now with what seemed like murderous intent. "Oh – is that a friend of yours? He seems a little –"

She had hoped to wait it out, but she could see that Mr. and Mrs. Wilkins were now effectively distracted – by her jealous boyfriend, she noted exasperatedly – and so she released Harry's hand to reapply pressure and whispered, "Now!"

"Stupefy!" The two shouts were identical and the Wilkins couple would be no more as they fell and Hermione and Harry sprang forward to catch them.

"Oh my –" Hermione heard the exclaim from afar and whipped her head back as she had set her mother down on the wooden floor gently.

She gasped when she saw a woman with pure white curls in a pink and white two-piece with a long skirt who must have been at least 80 years old shaking in her boots.

"Ron!" Hermione yelled. "You're supposed to have kept an eye out!"

Ron threw a glance towards the old lady and sneered, "It's not like she can do anything about it!"

"_Ron_!"

The old woman had begun to totter away, muttering furiously to herself and swinging her giant black handbag around frantically.

Ron took after the old woman with another angry glare at his girlfriend, causing the old lady scream and try to speed up, effectively tripping with the heels she should not have been wearing at her age.

Hermione rolled her eyes, turning back to the task at hand. She licked her lips, raising her wand. She willed herself not to hesitate as she waved it and whispered, "_Finite incantatum_."

.

"Hermione, _Hermione_!"

Ron was yelling and he could be seen through the open door of the house of a stranger as the Grangers slowly came to. Hermione ignored him because she needed to know if her parents were okay. Would they be confused – of course they would. Would they be angry? Would they not remember? Would they have cuts of time in bits and pieces missing? They were Matthew and Aubrey Granger but they were also Wendell and Monica Wilkins. They had a life implanted into their brains, engraved in page and detail, though it was bland, as there was only so much of a life Hermione could have imagined for her parents who would have no knowledge of the existence of a previous life, of her, but it was real for them.

How they grew up exactly as they had but had no siblings, how they met in college as they studied for dentistry just as it happened, how they got married was also unchanged but she made them forget of the practice they owned and had led them to believe instead that they worked in a hospital – so they wouldn't think to check, she made them think they had already resigned without issues. She killed her grandparents off in their minds and erased her existence just as she did to two uncles and an aunt and their families. It hadn't been an easy feat, to plan a history that was a lie and without her, to enforce new intentions and dreams like moving to Australia. As an extra precaution, she had left it to the couple, then Mr. and Mrs. Wilkins, to decide where in Australia they would relocate to. She even forged the documents needed with magic. It didn't take two days for them to pack, as Hermione Vanished any signs of her previous life in their home with her. Hermione knew this because she had been unable to hold firm to her resolve to not turn back and had popped in on the third day, just from afar, to just look, when she saw the For Sale sign on the front porch and windows like eyes and mouths opening to an empty interior.

But she had done what she had needed to.

Hermione had also ignored Ron because he was dealing with an old lady – how hard could that possibly be?

An orange ball of fur decided to appear from behind a bookshelf at that moment and meowed, his strange yellow cat eyes observing Hermione before bristling and turning away, leaving the room. _Oh_, even Crookshanks was angry with her!

Her mother opened her eyes before her father because the counterspell had been cast first on her. She was laid on the floor, with her head on a pillow, as her husband did as well, that Hermione requested Harry to get from the couch. She looked confused and Hermione was incredibly wary because of the look she wore on her face.

Mrs. Granger sat slowly, rather unsteadily. Hermione was unsure whether she should reach out her hand to help or not, knelt in between her parents and turning slightly to face her.

"Hermione?" her mother breathed, her brow furrowed.

"Mom?" Hermione whispered softly in return, holding her breath.

"Hermione, what's going on?" the older woman asked, her voice small, like a scared child, and Hermione thought of the times when she was a little girl, and how the roles had been reversed.

"Mom – you know who I am," Hermione choked, uncertain herself as to whether it was a question or a statement. It felt a little of both. Could she allow herself to relax yet?

No, maybe they would be angry.

"Hermione?"

She turned around to see her father sit up, a frown on his face. Oh, the lines on his face had deepened.

It was worse than those years when she would head off to Hogwarts and involve herself in misdemeanors and come home to a new couch, a new telly, a new haircut or a new scar – things that seemed to be unworthy of a mention in their letters but was worth all the sentimentality because of the old being discarded, the new being already brought in and the experience she missed in the change itself. She had left her parents in hope she would return and in dread that she would die – or worse, _they _would die. The deepest line on his forehead and the fine little crack-like traces all over his skin was all it took for her to lose her composure, and she felt a tear slide down her cheek.

"Dad?"

"Hermione," he sounded angry, she would know – it was his reprimanding tone, "What did you do?"

She began to cry in earnest, eyes and nose scrunched up and mouth open, feeling herself being transported back into her childhood even though she had never gotten herself into much trouble being the type of child she had been.

"Oh, Matthew! Don't!" her mother chastised but the paused and looked very befuddled, which made Hermione cry even harder.

"Hermione," Harry whispered and it sounded like a hiss because he didn't really want to be heard.

The three Grangers turned to look at the man who stood awkwardly at the door, blocking the view of the scene before him from the outside. The silence stretched.

"Oh!" Mrs. Granger exclaimed as she jumped up. "A guest!"

Hermione who had stopped her crying gave a wail of misunderstanding and lunged for Harry, who looked like he was indeed very out of place, burying her face into the front of his shirt. Were they not able to hang on to reality?

"Get off the floor now, Matthew!"

_Matthew_, she called him Matthew.

Hermione whipped her head around, eyes wide with tear tracks on her cheeks, finding herself holding her breath once again. Her hands clenched painfully on Harry's shoulders, she assumed, as she felt him flinch, but she could no longer feel her numbed claws.

Aubrey Granger gave her daughter a chiding half-smile and half-frown. "You'll have to explain yourself, young lady. But it can wait. Matthew, get off the floor!" She had her hands on her hips and glared down at the bewildered man.

Harry gave Hermione a look that said_, so that's where you get it from_. And in rebuttal, Hermione stuck out her tongue and laughed, albeit tearfully, relieved that at least her mother would give her the chance to explain under less tense circumstances.

Hermione's father stood up and rubbed his rump, looking disgruntled at being yelled at by his wife. "Which one of you dropped us on the floor?" he questioned, but without any menace.

"Uh, I did, sir," Harry admitted uneasily.

Matthew Granger eyed the arm Harry had around Hermione, opened his mouth to say something but held it in, raising his eyes to his face again. Then he looked only a tinge surprised before he relaxed visibly. "Harry Potter, yes?"

"Yes, sir," Harry answered quickly.

"Well, where's that other one – the, Arthur's son –"

_Oh, no_, Hermione groaned internally. Well, at least his memory was perfectly intact.

Right on cue, Ron shouted again, "HERMIONE! CAN YOU JUST – THIS OLD LADY IS – ARGH!"

The four at the door of the Wendell and Monica's house turned to see the old lady whacking Ron with her purse.

"FOR FUCK'S SAKE –"

"LANGUAGE!" the old woman scolded furiously, turning rather pink in the cheeks as she swiped his head once more.

Hermione let out a giggle she tried to stifle and Harry was laughing wholeheartedly.

"Ah." Hermione turned to look at her mother who stared at Ron with a look of wonderment on her face, standing on her toes to look over Harry's shoulder. "I see what you mean about him."

Hermione didn't know exactly what her mother meant about that but she removed the fist she was stuffing into her mouth and grinned. "That's Ron."

.

Suppose that was the moment all was forgiven. Or when Hermione and Harry rushed up to the old woman, apologizing profusely while the older Granger couple backed up their fib of how they were visiting and the couple had fallen down because of the slippery floor, excusing the red flashes for the sunlight playing tricks on them. Or when the old lady, so much shorter than Ron, stabbed a finger in his direction and gave him an admonishing and rather scary look. That was a good moment. Or maybe when Hermione formally introduced Ron Weasley as her boyfriend to her parents and he was still slightly winded by the old lady's attack, turning bright red in the face.

It didn't matter, only that all was forgiven. But it was, in fact, not forgotten.

They had sat down for tea and the Golden Trio began to tell their story together, for the first time, and from the very beginning, to the Muggle couple that sat opposite them. At some points, Mr. Granger's face turned a bright red and he seemed under duress when Hermione was sure he was so disapproving, he wanted to yell but would not. At others, Mrs. Granger's face turned white as a sheet and her mouth would be open in undisguised horror when Hermione was sure she wanted to cry or faint but she did not. They did not once interrupt but listened with intent, until Hermione was sure she could see the smoke billowing out of the ears of both.

Mouth in a tight line, Mr. Granger had said that he understood but disapproved, in a clipped tone. Mrs. Granger nodded in assent, staring at her hands. Hermione was going to cry again and the boys held each of her hand.

Mr. Granger then sighed and said they would like to stay, glancing at his wife to know that he spoke for them both. Mrs. Granger added that the three could come visit any time they wished.

So after they bid goodbye – with another round of tight hugs and teary eyes for Hermione and firm handshakes for the men and a warning look from Hermione's father to Ron – and left, they returned rather often, just as they wished.

.

.

Harry had decided on pursuing his dreams to become an Auror. Ron shrugged and agreed it would be cool. Hermione smiled and thought wherever they would be, she would be too.

Kingsley who had become Minister offered them the positions without qualms, appointing Proudfoot to arrange training immediately. Their training was shortened because they were who they were and they did what they had done well. They became Aurors and partners, a trio as they had always been.

Hermione moved back in with Ron so Harry no longer slept on a couch. Her nightmares worsened. Her sleep was shortened. So she spent many nights awake, studying tracking spells and making potions. In the morning, she would take a Pepperup Potion with a cup of coffee. Their work was inconsistent, sometimes stretching nights and sometimes coming up empty for days, but even so, it consumed her.

.

"Hermione?"

She hummed in reply, focusing on the cauldron before her. The potion bubble unpleasantly and she wrinkled her nose.

"Hermione, come back to bed."

"Ron, we need this Polyjuice Potion in the morning," she rebuked. It wasn't a lie, they did need it. But she had a stock of it, and if she didn't, she could just ask for it from the Auror Department. So maybe it was a lie.

"You could get it from Savage," Ron dismissed, sounding annoyed.

She heard the footsteps of him coming down the wooden steps of the stairs all the way and became aware of the heat radiating from his body as he stood behind her. She looked up from her position next to the window, bathed in silver and a little candlelight on her right, and saw his reflection. His shock of red hair trailed into a scruffy beard which she thought made him look rather more grownup than he acted, and then she wondered why she thought he did not act grownup. Maybe because he didn't.

"Come back to bed, Hermione," he willed, his arms snaking around her waist.

"I've already started this, I might as well finish it," she said quietly, stirring the cauldron.

He sighed, a frustrated sound. "Just come back to bed, Hermione. Forget the stupid potion."

"No, Ron," she snapped and turned around to glare at him.

He kept his hands on her back and she pressed her hands into his chest, to put some distance between then. She stared dead at a spot on his grey T-shirt and said nothing. The silence was not precious, the silence was not golden. The silence was awkward like something was dead.

There was of course the sound of their breathing and a creak here and there in the old house called the Burrow but it couldn't fill the emptiness they left out.

There wasn't anything wrong between them, so she decided to tell him, "Nothing's wrong."

She looked up and saw he looked a little angry, like he was trying hard not to scowl. She knew Ron had been working on his temper and she was grateful for that effort. But it didn't just go away. "Well, I'd think something was bloody wrong with you acting like this," he seethed.

She flinched, ducking her head. She felt his arms being retracted. Her arms dropped to her sides when the distance she put between them with her hands began to stretch without her force and she was overwhelmed by a chill. He left, and she stood there a long time, listening. His footfalls were so quiet it was deafening, because it wasn't like him. This wasn't like her either and she knew he thought it. She might have always been a workaholic, a little perfectionist but she would never have quite plainly pushed him away, because, frankly, she was crazy about him. She really was.

She just didn't want to go to bed.

.

.

Work settled down a little after the first two months and Hermione's nightmares were soothed by a Dreamless Sleep Potion before bed. Ron was glad she was now in bed every night but was slightly bothered by the fact that all she really did was _sleep_. But he understood she never really got a lot of sleep anymore, not that he did anything about it. Thus, their relationship was in the safe and yet not as well as before.

Because they had more free time, Hermione was adamant to visit her parents more. She Apparated there and back in the beginning, taking Ron with her and sometimes Harry, as Ginny had gone back to Hogwarts. Mr. Weasley was always delighted to visit the Muggle home when he wasn't busy rebuilding the Department of Magical Accidents and Catastrophes, which he had been appointed as Head of. She spent mealtimes there, learning about their lives as Wendell and Monica, the identities they kept for the time being, and regaining Crookshanks trust. She'd liked to think she was regaining her parents trust too. Although she would be happier thinking it was never lost, she wasn't so naïve.

By Christmas, Ron had tired of these trips and opted instead to play Quidditch with the old schoolmates like Dean Thomas and Anthony Goldstein. Harry while conflicted as to which way he should go at such crossroads would be dismissed by Hermione, for she knew he really wanted to fly. Eventually, Hermione decided, since she would go alone, why not stay a while?

"You headed off again?" Ron would grunt, normally at breakfast where she had eaten much earlier and came downstairs with a backpack on her shoulders.

"Yeah," she would answer.

He would nod, sometimes glare, sometimes smile but never, ever say anything about it. So depending on his reaction, she would sometimes hug him goodbye with a kiss atop his head – because he would not abandon his sausage and eggs – or just walk out the door.

Hermione liked spending time with her parents, answering their questions about her life as it was but finding herself having to lie about how well her relationship with Ron had been going. It wasn't as if they were doing badly. Maybe the spark had gone out. They were still comfortable around each other. She was practical and didn't expect to be like a lovesick teenager for long. They weren't even teenagers anymore. She felt privileged to have felt like that for the amount of time she had, no matter how short it was, appreciative, even. Her parents began worrying just a smidgen about how much time the two young lovers spent apart but Hermione waved away their worries.

Mrs. Weasley, however, agreed to those very concerns, and had in fact, begun to whisper words of insinuation on _commitment_. She threw around hints that were truly more like giant boulders, nothing refined about them, particularly in Hermione's direction. Now, Hermione thought this to be strange to say the least whenever she found another family album or wedding photos or even Mrs. Weasley flashing her old engagement ring at the dinner table. Shouldn't Ron be on the receiving end of these suggestions instead of her? Well, of course, Mrs. Weasley didn't think Hermione would be the one to propose, did she! Did she?

Harry was not spared from these tip-offs by the Weasley matron but he had very bravely presented the issue to Mrs. Weasley – while Mr. Weasley was present – and politely requested that they did not urge him or Ginny to rush things, especially since Ginny had returned to Hogwarts to complete her education, much to her chagrin and Harry's insistence. Of course, that had been a brilliant – and right – step, couldn't go wrong no matter how resolved Mrs. Weasley had been. Hermione rather suspected she doted on him for it.

Ron, however, it turned out, had taken a different approach, which was apparently why Mrs. Weasley had so strongly fire the idea of marriage in Hermione's way.

"You told her _what_?" Hermione gawped.

"_Wha_'?" he muttered defensively.

"Ronald Weasley! Spit that cookie out!" she spluttered. "You're the reason why your mother's been hunting me down with Bill and Fleur's wedding photos? It's not even a particularly fond memory of hers, the part where it ends with the tent going up in flames!"

"We', tha's jus' 'e endin'! I' wa'," he paused to swallow. "It was the epitome of, the embodiment of something, something about love and sacrifices and here and now."

Hermione rolled her eyes, having heard this speech just two days ago at the dinner time, by Fleur with her steadily improving vocabulary, when the photos had been passed around before pudding was served.

"Ron!" she groaned, falling onto the bed they shared and contemplating throwing a fit.

It was still light out, before dinnertime and he had just gotten back from another Quidditch game.

He propped down at the edge of the mattress and began removing his shoes. He then proceeded to lie down on her. She squirmed under his weight and slapped his shoulders. "Get off me, Ron, you need a bath!"

He rolled off and lied on his back next to her with a hum and a sigh, folding his arms underneath his head. "So, yes, I told my mother that you weren't the kind of girl who would want to get married fresh out of school, war or not," he clarified.

Hermione turned to her side and pinched the skin of his stomach.

"Ow, ow!" he protested, hitting her hand away. He scowled in response of her vehement glare. "I'm not wrong!"

She supposed he wasn't, but they had never discussed about such matters. Why hadn't he even thought of consulting her? Perhaps it would be extremely awkward, like it was right now. It was very awkward right now, wasn't it?

Ron shifted and diverting his line of sight to the ceiling. "I'm not wrong, Hermione," he repeated softly.

"Is that what you want?" she blurted out and froze at her question. And though it was not clear, she knew he understood her meaning.

"Well." She felt him shrug. "I guess."

The silence hung thick and heavy.

"I guess it's a little early," he amended and she exhaled.

"And besides, she only started this because you keep leaving," he accused, left arm dropping so she could give her a nudge.

She snorted. "You mean leaving to see my parents," she corrected, seeing it as hardly an issue.

"Well, yeah, I know that, she knows that. But I don't know, Mom is just sort of… You're just different. You remember when Bill brought home Fleur."

Hermione poked him in the ribs, affronted. "Are you comparing me to Fleur?"

"Ah?" He seemed lost for words, as if he were at that very moment, in his head, putting the two together and assessing them in comparison. Then he shook his head. "There's nothing to compare."

She poked him, harder this time, causing him to wince. "You just compared us – tell me, how she wins?" she demanded haughtily, knowing she was short of the part-Veela. Though she had developed an interesting friendship with the French girl, she would always be at least a little jealous of her with her untimely beauty.

Ron faced her and she thought his eyes looked especially blue and exceptionally clear that moment. He made a face before rolling his eyes. "You win, Hermione," he stated as though it was obvious.

She shook her head in wonder, wide-eyed and he grinned. Maybe things were alright after all.

April came and passed quickly enough.

.

.

August brought a summer storm.

But May was the worst, when they thought of what happened the year before. Hermione couldn't quit the Dreamless Sleep Potions if she wanted to.

By the end of summer, Hermione was tired of staying in the Burrow and she needed privacy. So she asked Ron if he'd like to move out, with her, of course and he declined.

Well, actually, what he'd said was, "_Have you gone bonkers_?"

He wouldn't want to leave the comfort of his home, where he had grown up, where his family was and where he was fed to his content, she understood. But she had hoped he would take this step with her. As a little girl, Hermione had watched movies with girls who had big dreams, going out on their own, looking for a job, staying in a flat of their own – no matter how little, and living out their lives that might be difficult but was satisfactory because it was a product of their hard work, and she supposed it was soul-searching. These girls sometimes fell in love in the midst of their mundane yet crazy routines. Hermione was already in love with Ron, so she had hoped to bring him along into her own adventure. One that didn't involve a three-headed dog or multiple giant snakes. But just because he refused to go with her, didn't mean she was going to miss out on the opportunity, because she had already found a flat in Muggle London.

In compromise, she did however decide to wait it out. Maybe he would come around.

.

Ginny had graduated from Hogwarts. Along with Harry, she decided to move out of the Burrow, and into 12 Grimmauld Place. By the end of the year 1999, Harry had demolished any and all portraits with help from professionals and cleaned out the rest of the house with Kreacher's help. He also transformed the bedroom Hermione and Ginny used to share on the first floor into the master bedroom instead, leaving the upper floors generally empty. The shrunken house-elf heads had also been taken down and dealt with as seen fit by Kreacher, who afterwards returned to the Hogwarts' kitchens.

There wasn't much to do anymore, but Hermione volunteered to help move some of the boxes Ginny had packed up while Mrs. Weasley hung on to the young redhead for dear life, weeping about how she had grown up. Ron followed suit just to get out of the uncomfortable atmosphere in the kitchen.

Hermione carried a cardboard box marked old photos into the drawing room in the first floor while Ron slouched behind her.

"Did you never think of having your own place like this?" she asked, placing the marble fireplace.

"Yeah, I mean," Ron's voice echoed, and Hermione supposed the room lacked life at the moment. "A place like this or like Shell Cottage, or like the Burrow."

_Ah. As opposed to a little flat. _

Hermione knelt down on the floor and peeled the tape off the opening of the box. She folded the flaps outward, focusing on removing each photo album and studying each photo frame. She came across last Christmas' family dinner, just two days ago, in a silver and glass frame. Everyone was crowded around the Extended dining table, seated or not, and abandoning their plates – except for Ron, of course – for the photo to be taken. Little Teddy had visited with Andromeda. Fleur was glowing, carrying a baby in her belly of four months. Angelina was also there with George.

"I want to move out, Ron," she finally said. She really did. However warm this family was, she'd like to know the meaning of adulthood and the responsibility of having a home of her own.

Just then a loud 'pop' was heard followed by another and there was laughter as Harry chased Ginny up the stairs, lively thumps sounding from under their feet. They arrived at the door of the drawing room, Harry lunging for Ginny and throwing his arms around her waist, his glasses slightly lopsided.

"Oh, Hermione!" Ginny greeted breathlessly, oblivious to the tension that weighed the air. "Did you get the last of the boxes?"

"Er, Gin," Harry muttered, looking warily from one best friend to the other.

"She wants to move out," Ron explained with an apprehensive look on his face when he caught Harry's eye.

Harry paused and glanced nervously at Hermione. _You haven't told him yet?_

Hermione shook her head, fidgeting with the hem of her sweater's sleeve.

"Hermione already got a flat, Ron."

"Ginny!" Hermione hissed, shooting her a sharp look.

Ginny shook her head, exasperated and tugged away Harry's arms to leave and get the rest of the boxes.

Ron looked confused at first but then slowly nodded. He finally turned from facing Harry, who stood dumbfounded and brow furrowed in frustration at the door, to look at Hermione. The ocean in his eyes had frozen over and he nodded once more. "You can move out."

It was almost a dismissal.

He pushed his shoulder against Harry's so he could leave the room.

Ginny came back into the room a few minutes later. "That was the last box."

Hermione sat on an armchair and stared at her clenching and unclenching hands.

"Hermione, do you want to talk about it?" Ginny asked straightforwardly.

She looked up, bewildered and shook her head no. The younger girl nodded and turned to Harry, who looked slightly lost – Hermione wasn't even sure what just happened – and she ushered him out the door.

The door shut behind them but she heard them whisper. Harry was concerned and thoroughly befuddled. He wanted to ask her what was wrong.

"People who want to run away won't sit and chat with you," Ginny bit, and Hermione could imagine her expression right then, the frustration and the resignation. "Even if it's not you they're running from," Ginny added softly.

.

.

Hermione never understood what Ginny had meant, nor did she bother to ask.

Before New Years' even came, she had moved out of the Burrow, with little objection – she suspected Ginny had told the rest of them to stick their complaints elsewhere.

The flat was an old red brick townhouse that had been partitioned, leaving Hermione with a master bedroom, a bathroom, a smaller bedroom, a kitchen with a breakfast bar and a living room. It wasn't much but it was hers, and she set out to make it hers. She got her bed from her childhood bedroom, as well as her old chest of drawers, wardrobe and vanity. The TV, coffee table, bookshelves, couch, shoe rack and coat rack was also from her old home. She didn't need much of anything else. She turned the smaller bedroom into an office which she ended up not using much of, with a new desk, swivel chair and armchair she got at retail price. She did this mainly on her own, sometimes with Ginny's help or Harry's. She contemplated Apparating her parents to London but she hadn't exactly told them that she was moving into this flat alone, or know that they would appreciate the sensation of Apparition.

She went to work as usual every day, and attended dinners at the Burrow every weekend just as Harry and Ginny did – Ginny was still learning to cook and Harry did his best to appreciate that. Ron never said much nor did he act particularly like her boyfriend. She found that she missed him and wondered if he did. She had attempted putting a stop to her dependency on potions, and on the nights where she woke up from the nightmares that had begun to decrease, she was sometimes incredibly lonely and yet sometimes relieved that she wouldn't have to endure a night where a loved one was right beside her and could not give her comfort. But she reveled in the fact that she was getting better.

The urgency for them to be engaged, at the very least, had arisen again when Mrs. Weasley found the two only ever exchanging a kiss or two before and after dinner that was actually immensely awkward.

Ron had been right. Hermione did not want to be tied down in marriage yet, and she knew he wasn't ready either, so they had to take equal blame for the discomfort they rained upon the Weasley home whenever the subject was brought up. Neither of them seemed to have much to say on the subject, but Hermione knew that was far from the truth.

.

"Ron," she spoke up that Monday at lunch as they sat opposite each other at his desk in the Auror office. Last night had been especially bad. Mrs. Weasley had burst into a fit of temper when they both refused to broach the subject.

"I don't want to marry you, Hermione."

She could take that a lot of ways, couldn't she? He didn't even look up from the foot-long sandwich he had laid out in front of him. Should she overanalyze this? Ron was known for his tactlessness.

Harry walked in at that moment and stooped to kiss Hermione atop the head, but before he could greet anyone verbally, she heard Ron mutter, "Why don't you marry Harry or something?"

Her blood boiled and she jumped to her feet, knocking the chair over. "What _nonsense_ are you spouting, Ronald?" she cried angrily.

He stood up, drawing himself to his full height – Hermione never really forgot how much taller he was compared to her. His ears began to redden but he didn't seem to have anything coherent to say. He was well aware of the fact that Harry was happily in love with Ginny, so what did he really have to say?

"You don't want to marry me, Ron?" she said as steadily as she could, shaking with a wild array of emotions. "Why couldn't you just be honest and told your mother that?"

"I didn't mean – I don't want to _yet_!"

She laughed, a shrill and slightly maddened cackle, sarcastic. "_Thank_ you for clarifying, Ronald!"

"I mean it!"

"Mean what? That you don't want to marry me – yet? Why didn't you just tell the truth? Why did you have to make it so _hard_?"

He opened his mouth furiously but she started to scream, tears falling thick, "This is all your fault!"

She had no idea what possessed her to say such a thing, because she never truly believed that. She rather thought it was her fault.

"_This is all your fault_!"

.

.

The fight might seem a little abrupt, but Hermione knew there was nothing sudden about it. There was nothing rational or truthful about it either, but it was what it was.

She left that day, took the first plane to Australia after packing up her flat, because she didn't want to end up at her parents' doorstep a mess, and that was how it would be if she were to Apparate and her arrival be immediate. She had a lot of thinking to do.

She found herself curled up on a foreign bed in a foreign room. The sheets smelled like detergent and nothing else, off-white, and soft to the touch of her scraping fingers and nails. The sun streamed in, a weak light filtered by the light cotton curtain.

She thought about everything she had encountered and everything she had prevailed when it came to Ron. She contemplated his dedication and her own. She remembered the good times. And sometimes she found she was doused in guilt. She was sorry and she was clueless as to how they actually ended this way. She didn't really consider going back though. And a week or two passed and she began to become angry again. She was upset with him and upset with herself. Sometimes she yelled and threw pillows at the wall and sometimes she cried. She pondered about whether she had begun to love him less and less and she deliberated if she was running away from him from the start. She evoked the worse memories, from the start till the very end and she cursed him with every fiber her being, moaning about how unfair it was that she still had to suffer this. She only did this for her to feel, and not for anyone else to know or see. She did this to go somewhere, to sort her every facet of emotion out, so she could go on.

She found herself at the very last moment, wondering about if she would love again. She was lying when she said she didn't expect them to be a little lovesick forever, at least a little. She expected love to be like magic, and she expected herself to be as happy as the day she found out she was a Witch. She wasn't short of realistic enough to think she would never find another, but she just blatantly reminded herself of the thoughts she once had that Ron was the one. She wasn't naïve enough to believe that a person only loved once, and that because you had given your being to one person so wholly before, you couldn't be accepted to do it again, though she really had wished Ron was the one. She wasn't irrational enough to believe that she was unattractive or ugly, because she was not. But lying there in a heap, she felt undesirable. And she wondered if she would ever be loved again.

But her month was up – the time limit she'd given herself – and she packed up her things, her feelings and thoughts and realizations in a box as she could finally contain them in a orderly fashion, and left the little inn she had stayed in a bit off Melbourne to go actually go look for her parents, where she stayed and sorted those little bits and pieces at her own pace.

She corresponded with Harry and Ginny by Owl, writing to them at least once every month, collecting their weekly letters and replying them one-shot. Her parents were supportive without actually tiptoeing around the subject, mentioning the Weasleys – as her father wrote letters by Muggle post to Mr. Weasley – at mealtimes. She appreciated that.

Her nightmares finally went away, and she found it had something to do with how her parents marveled at her contribution whenever they questioned about her lifestyle – they had gotten over the protective phase because, well, she was alive, wasn't she! She was a soldier and she was alive, wasn't she? And her old fears faded into obscurity.

She learned how to cook from both her parents and made the guest bedroom her own. She got a job in a bookstore a few blocks away from home and spent most of her time reading and, of course, thinking. She thought of what Ginny had said, about running away.

_"People who want to run away won't sit and chat with you, even if it's not you they're running from."_

Maybe she wasn't running from Ron. Maybe she was running from the past and the nightmares. Maybe she wanted to hide from her fear. Maybe it just wasn't meant to be – or rather, this was what was meant to be. Maybe it was time to stop running.


	5. Chapter Four

A/N: I have been keeping this chapter for a very long time now. Just months, slowly adding bits and pieces over it. I've been undergoing a lot of changes in my life in the past few months, so everything's been a bit of a mess. This has been written over the course of 3 months or so, in which I had started college, moved to my aunt's, dropped out of college, transferred to a new school and that's just scratching the surface. And I actually have my exams on Monday but well, I saw that this story actually has followers, and I decided, since I was close to finishing it anyway, that I just whip this up. I apologize for any lack of cohesion between parts or even the chapters. Enjoy!

**Disclaimer: In its use of intellectual property and characters belonging to JK Rowling, Warner Bros, Bloomsbury Publishing, etc., this work of fiction is intended to be transformative commentary on the original. No profit is being made from this work.**

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><p><strong>Chapter Four: To Set off Fire Alarms<strong>

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The back of her eyelids were black. As soon as she became aware of this, they turned red. The layer of skin caught speckles of light and the flecks danced in colors she didn't have names for because they were too quick, and she began to wonder, were they really there at all?

They shot into the back of her head and turned into ache, so she scrunched up her eyes, and the back of her eyelids turned blue and purple. But when she thought this, the ache only intensified. So she let go of knowledge and settled merely for knowing that her eyes were shut closed.

Nope, she was entirely conscious of the arm wound around her waist. The weight was familiar, like that of her mother's soft envelope of a hug or the minty scent of toothpaste on her father. Hermione could not feign ignorance for the life of her so she acknowledged it, and she wondered how it could be that she felt strange under this mass of familiarity, uncomfortable almost. Like she shouldn't be there.

Hermione always thought that the familiar things in life served the purpose of comfort. They acted as a mark in memory to bring about a sense of safety, and she likely thought the idea was perfectly logical. It was what people called a comfort zone. It was a place, albeit not always physical, where you were used to the way things, or life itself, functioned, a place one would be reluctant to leave because it was a space, a time where there was little surprise, little adventure and a big slab of consistency, which in turn, served as a safety net.

How peculiar of her to want to sling the arm off of her.

She reasoned with herself that it was due to the fact she had spent the better part of the past year sleeping alone and wasn't kind to the company which chose to clog up her personal space, and surely, the heavy weight was not something deemed to be comfortable. Only, she knew that it had been, at least once upon a time.

And at that moment, she knew, just who that arm belonged too.

"Oh, _Jesus_."

He grunted somewhere into her hair before he flipped to the other side, away from her, only to collide into the wood of the wall.

"'Mione?" he grumbled groggily, twisting his body and stretching out, his elbow knocking onto her shoulder blade before she trudged forward to avoid further impact. Every popping joint was aligned with familiarity, rang a bell in her head. He made a sound, and that, she knew was the clearing of his throat.

"Jesus," she repeated in a mutter this time, she really did know him like the back of her hand. Somehow, all this information seemed incessant, like an annoying peck-a-peck-peck in her brain that came from suitcase loads of utterly _useless_ knowledge. _It must take up a lot of space_, she thought furiously, _what _nonsense.

Before she could begin to analyze and justify her anger, a sudden wind blew from the door being thrown open and whoever stood at the door drew in a sharp inhale.

Hermione was still groggy from sleep, and the previous emotional night, and she peeked from underneath her eyelids to see an imposing shadow looming upon her and the man who lay next to her. She barely glimpsed the figure when Ron immediately shot up from his lazy stretch, his hand straying and connecting with Hermione's back hard and loud, like a slap.

"OW," she protested, rolling off of the bed in a rather involuntary response, similarly to being pushed off a cliff.

The sharp inhale was finally followed by an overdue exhale, low and huffy, a stiff sound. The person breathed and then let out a shrill sound that must have been his or her – definitely_ her_ – voice. "_RONALD_. WEASLEY!"

This seemed to hit Hermione a little late, like being blinded by the flashing headlights of a train heading right for you because, surely enough, you had heard the chug-a-chug-a-chug and the sharp whistle, and it's just about to hit you and you're wondering, why on_ Earth_ were you standing on the train tracks in the first place? And to be perfectly honest, Hermione did not enjoy the feeling of being dense in the slightest.

She flipped over, using her elbows to push herself up into a position that was not as compromising as her former heap on the floor. She sat and observed the supposed intruder.

Her honey blonde hair, just two shades lighter from becoming brown, hung to her waist in smooth waves about her face of creamy gold, tinged just right in red along her cheekbones – though that may have been from anger – and her eyes wide and blue and _absolutely seething_.

"_Lavender_?"

She had grown into quite the woman, Hermione admitted in grudging reluctance, a best case scenario of a turn out from her teenager self back when she had Won-won snagged at the end of her mouth. Hermione wasn't sure why she was shocked by her sudden materialization at Ron's bedroom door. Ginny had informed her before she was, quite eloquently put, jumped on by Draco Malfoy's sudden reappearance that Ron had begun dating Lavender Brown again.

In all truthfulness, Hermione never liked her, even before she developed an abrupt interest in the Gryffindor's Quidditch team Keeper. She was always so frilly, like a million bedazzling colors fashioned to blindside anyone from really finding out who she really was, that essence that made a person, or to hide the fact that, really, she was of no essence. The gossip, the loud giggling, the wide eyes and her obvious love and arbitrary respect for such a frivolous subject as Divination were just the whipped cream on the ice cream, and the fact that she became Ron's first girlfriend, the cherry on top. She had been a perfect personification of the title Queen Bee. And so, to put it plainly, Hermione Granger was never a good loser.

Despite Hermione's scrutiny on the newly grownup woman – well, to Hermione she was newly grownup, she hadn't seen her since the War! – Lavender had her attention focused undividedly onto Ron who was somewhere behind her. Hermione twisted her head a little, glimpsing Ron on his knees, eyes wide with horror, mouth gaping as though he was begging for mercy. Hermione bristled at the thought of how she never really got him as petrified as this, if she remembered correctly, and surely, she held more authority than _her_.

The motion of Hermione turning seemed to set Lavender off and she exploded with a shriek, "WHY IS SHE WEARING YOUR BOXERS?"

She threw herself forward and Hermione dodged, alarmed, only to find out that she was not the target of her sudden, vicious pounce.

"WHY – WHAT IS SHE DOING HERE – RONALD WEASLEY –"

"LAVENDER, STOP – LAV – GOD, WOMAN – NO – STOP IT, LAVENDER – IT'S NOT –"

"IT'S NOT WHAT, WEASLEY – SHE'S HERE, ISN'T SHE –"

"MERLIN'S SAKE – LAVENDER – IT'S NOT LIKE THAT –"

Hermione watched, eyes impossibly round to make up for the lack of a dropped jaw, at the clash that unfolded before her eyes with Lavender gripping onto a pillow and whacking it, unforgiving, on Ron's ducked head as he tried to shield her attempts while waving his thick arms around best as he could without hitting her.

Well, _really_.

"AND _YOUR. MOTHER. MADE. ME. SLEEP. IN. THE. OTHER. ROOM_!" With each word spat, the pillow punctured the air and plopped onto Ron's head hidden under his forearms, until it burst into a thousand feathers that glided in the suddenly still space as though a Freezing Charm had been placed upon them.

Hermione felt her mind drift as the pale feathers did, and she found her breath caught in her throat, constricted as if it were solid matter.

Yes, familiarity. It struck her, but not like a Bludger, hard and painful, but like a sound wave, the loud clang of a gong, loud and clear. This scene was reminiscent of the crazy mornings with Ron, with the filling scent of baked goods and fry-ups to be identified as a warm kind of love, at the very beginning of their blooming relationship. It was good. They were good. It was definitely good. Well, obviously, it had not been quite as intently violent or vicious. It was almost funny.

She laughed, a gurgling sound at the back of her vocal cords as Lavender tackled Ron, entangling his bright hair in fingers and feathers, and he fended her off after being pushed onto his back, huffing and puffing, both red in the face from the effort.

"YOU!"

_Uh-oh_.

Hermione looked horrified as Lavender whipped around, her hair crowned with feathers, projecting a rather fitting image in her eyes. The Queen of the Birds wore an expression displaying an intense yet contained fury with narrowed eyes and a twitching nose, which in Hermione's mind's eye morphed into a giant yellow beak. Her imagination caused her to begin jolting in her bones from amusement and the prevention from laughing out loud, and the illogical fear that she might have gone crazy after all. She chose to switch her focus towards Ron.

He looked dumbfounded, propped up on his elbows, at the ceasefire. He alternated his wide-eyed stare between the two women. Lavender knelt between his feet. Hermione took a step back before her back hit the wall. She wasn't afraid, no, not really. It was more like the instinct for self-preservation. Lavender just seemed a little… unstable.

Hermione remembered with irony that she sent a flock of birds at Ron back in Sixth Year when the roles were reversed. Except, the roles weren't really reversed this time. She wasn't really… Ron wasn't really… They weren't really –

Lavender let her eyes slide shut and she took a deep breath before she nodded to herself firmly as if to convince herself that she now had things under control. She tilted her chin upwards and plastered on her face a look that, to Hermione's surprise, was not arrogance or smugness or anger, but pure, unadulterated determination. It was needless to say that Hermione would never expect to see the day Lavender could wear such an expression.

Her jaw fell slack a little.

"Hermione," Lavender greeted in an even tone that rang with professionalism, causing Hermione to straighten her spine a little – perhaps even in respect! "I understand that Ronald and you had a wonderful relationship, and it was a respectable one, as war heroes – admired by many, certainly. But to my knowledge, you have also had your fair share of problems, which ultimately had led to the breakup a year ago –"

Hermione couldn't help it, she corrected people. "Excuse me? _To your knowledge_? Unless Ronald has told you everything – which I highly doubt – he doesn't exactly respond well in discussions about emotions, not even in building relationships – or, or, you've been something of a _therapist_to him… though I suspect not –" she trailed off, having forgotten that therapists were a Muggle-exclusive job, not even close to being introduced in the magical realm despite its demand due to the mental aftereffects of war, before shooting off again, barely a pause detectable, "– maybe he's gotten drunk too many times around you and spilled his guts– "

"Well, no, not a _therapist_! But he has told me –"

"Hey!" Ron suddenly exclaimed, affronted, having caught on at the semi-insult that Hermione had spluttered. The tip of his ears burned a bright chili pepper red. "People change, okay!"

"Well, clearly!"

"Goodness' sake, Ronald, shut up!" They both spoke up at the same time, the words resounding in the tense little room. Hermione had a little surprise ringing inside of her from Lavender's knowledge of the existence of therapists, being Pureblood… and well, Lavender. The two former lovers of Ronald Weasley stared at each other in its aftermath. Well, apparently, only one of them was still just a former lover.

Hermione would have reached up to smooth her hair like Lavender had just done, but she was afraid her fingers might get caught in the tangled bird's nest of a bed mess she was forced to deal with every morning. Lavender cleared her throat and looked up, right at Hermione again. Hermione gazed back at her apprehensively.

Lavender opened her mouth to say something, but then came a loud wooshing sound that must have been the Floo, followed by a series of consecutive loud crashes and shouted protests from downstairs.

"OW!"

"Ginny, don't –"

"Get off me, Potter!"

"What are you –"

Hermione froze when she recognized the voice of the hissing, as opposed to the louder, unrestrained ones of the family members to this home.

"They're going to wake your parents," Hermione said awkwardly, just for something to fill the sudden silence following the intrusion.

Lavender looked puzzled, from the direction of the open door to the rigid stance Hermione opted for at her words, but she said nothing.

Ron was the one who explained, "Mom and dad are visiting Charlie."

"What about –" Hermione stopped. She forgot that everyone else had moved out of the Burrow. Above all else, she stopped because of the wave of guilt that spread over her at the thought of her lack of information about her adopted parents. Did she forget that someone had told her they were going to be away? Or worse, _did_ anyone tell her they would be away? Did they think she even _cared_?

"Mrs. Weasley Flooed in last night just to make sure we slept in separate rooms," Lavender added quietly. "I slept in Ginny's old room."

Her weak smile at the end of that statement triggered a gun that shot an invisible wound through a deep place inside of Hermione, like, say, her conscience. She had been ready to antagonize Lavender, first opportunity given, even though she had been in the beginning too bewildered by her demeanor. Ron was right. People changed all the time.

"I don't think there's anyone around," Harry's voice echoed from down the stories, reminding the three at the top floor of their existence.

"Jesus!" Ginny exclaimed, and then giggled, and Hermione grimaced half-heartedly at the younger woman's antics. Apparently, Harry had been educating Ginny on Muggle curse words… though she couldn't be sure – she might have influenced that one specifically.

"I know for a fact Ron's supposed to be around here somewhere," Harry muttered, but his words were carried through the air up to where Hermione stood.

Ron raised an eyebrow, glancing furtively at the quiet and still Lavender to make sure she wasn't about to unleash a surprise attack him again before he sat up properly on his mattress, ready to slide off to find his old best friend.

The stairs creaked and Hermione's heart leapt, right to her throat and pumping an erratic rhythm of _thump, thump-thump_ straight through her brain, starting a riot by beating on her eardrums.

First, she could imagine how it looked. Yes, Hermione Granger cared what others thought, shallow as that may sound, because she understood that without an image – though she preferred it had no dependency on physical appearances – no one had a way to get anywhere at all. Her standing here with her mussed up hair in Ron's old boxers and dismayed, Ron with feathers capping his bed head and looking particularly defeated whenever he looked at Lavender, and Lavender with her slumped posture and red-tinged face from her previous exertion and averting eyes. Not to mention the evidence of violence in the alleged crime scene where Lavender thwacked Ron to submission. To an outsider, she could see how they would piece this together into a grand misunderstanding which she would rather not have to justify. Because there was nothing –

"No one said anything about Weasel!"The whine seemed to have been a punch to the gut for Ron as he recoiled. Whatever Harry and Ginny's reply was, it was drowned out by Ron's incredulous demand.

"Is that – _Malfoy_?"

"Yes, I can hear you, Weasel!" the voice of cheerful mockery sounded a lot closer now.

Ron sprang to his feet at once, striding forward, one step, two steps until he stood in front of Lavender, though not really blocking her. Hermione wondered if it was instinct, to protect, subconscious and quiet inside of him. It was there, present, albeit a little understated as compared to his reactions when Hermione used to be in trouble. The way he used to leap into action, holding her back. But she realized it wasn't really a competition – there really wasn't any competition. There had been a war, and they were right smack in the frontlines. There was no real threat any longer. What was the threat this time? A slimy, incorrigible white ferret –

Harry's head popped in first, with his glasses crooked and a perfectly curious expression upon his soot-smudged face. In fact, the black smears looked like fingerprints, so Hermione would bet anything that Ginny was responsible for that. His eyes brightened at the sight of Hermione, then his face darkened altogether as he took in the rest of the scene. Even so, his eyes smoothed over, centered by guarded jades of green. He stepped neatly into the doorframe, silently regarding Ron who stood ever so slightly in front of Lavender. Yes, Harry would notice the subtle differences. And anyone would notice his noticing, oh, Harry who still wore his heart on his sleeves, his face, eyes, at the very least, brimming with emotion.

"Oh, ow! Move, Malfoy!" Ginny's angry voice travelled from beyond Harry and the open door, very nearby.

"Got-day-meat, She-Weasel! This staircase cannot fit the both of us!"

"It's_goddammit_! At least get it right!" she huffed indignantly before appearing by Harry's right shoulder.

"God damn it, Ginny," Harry corrected blankly, seeming to have concocted a care for Gin's vocabulary.

"What did I do!" She threw her hands up in exasperation. After she rolled her eyes, she settled them upon the unlikely trio before her and left her mouth open after her long, disgruntled "uggghhh."

"He was correcting you, you daft woman," Malfoy grunted as he slouched into view."Close your mouth -"

Almost at once, wands were drawn. There was the flap of the curtains started by the gentle wind from the open window and the creaks of the old floorboards that could never be imagined to break, nothing else.

Shockingly enough, one of the wands whipped out was Ginny's, pointing straight at Malfoy, who had his raised defensively in reflex reaction. Ron gripped his wand that had lain at the small bedside table in between fingers that had turned deathly white from the force while Lavender wrapped a hand around his arm, as if to restrain him.

Harry and Hermione remained completely rooted, stock still.

Ginny's hair seemed to frizzle with static electricity as she narrowed her eyes, poking her wand at the space between her and Malfoy menacingly. Malfoy, instead of letting his eyes follow the wand's movement, stared intensely at Ginny's complexion, no doubt still completely vigilant to be aware of any sudden movement. His face betrayed no emotion. There were no raised eyebrows, no twitching mouth or wrinkled nose. Like a marble statue, pale as he was, there was only the force in his stare behind those dove grey eyes that indicated signs of life. He could have been Petrified for all Hermione knew.

Hermione's eyes flickered towards Ron who had now pushed Lavender behind him, shielding her. He glared with actual hatred at the blond man. Hermione was in disbelief, her jaw falling slack. He actually believed Malfoy was a threat!

Once again faced with a peculiar situation, she almost laughed out loud.

The strangeness of it only multiplied when she thought that, normally, if circumstances had not been so drastically and unexpectedly changed by Godric knows what – she couldn't even pinpoint it exactly, she would probably have had the cheek to view Malfoy as the enemy. Of course she had been slightly guarded, but that was to be expected! She would be rather foolish if she were to just let the former Slytherin march right through her front door without triple-checking – seeing as Harry and Ginny had already accepted him. Yes, seeing as they had already accepted him, _really_. She glanced at Malfoy who still remained to be an aristocratic sculpture. Oh,_ Merlin_, he –

Ginny took in a sharp, deep breath and waved the wand under Malfoy's nose but he didn't even cringe. It was a very short game of Chicken. He must have called the bluff because Ginny only wagged the thing warningly before stowing it away in the pocket of her night robe. She puffed in an annoyed fashion, turning back to face the inside of the room.

Hermione suspected this kind of exchange happened quite a lot.

"Now, what's going on here?"

She lifted her eyes from her pocket after patting it to make sure it was securely kept, a habit, surely, developed since war and from being the other half – Hermione wasn't sure if _bette_r half was a fitting title – of an Auror, not least, Harry Potter.

"What is Malfoy doing here?" Ron gritted the question through his teeth.

Lavender peeked from behind his shoulder, a picture of subtle yet bewildered interest.

Ginny raised an eyebrow at her brother's tense manner. "Ron, you know he's been around forever."

"Forever is rather an overstatement. I wouldn't survive an inch of amount of that timeframe around these – _oomph_,_ Ginny_!" Malfoy glared with a modest vehemence at her for elbowing him in the gut.

"_Ginny _now, is it?" Ron scowled.

"Yes, I suppose, she's not fond of _Ginevra_, you see –" He ducked this time, falling into step on the other side of Harry and throwing Ginny a disgruntled look before masking it smoothly with a smirk. "Of course, she has taken a liking to the nickname I bestowed upon her, yes, Weaslette?"

Ginny merely rolled her eyes, much to Hermione's surprise.

"Hi, Malfoy," Lavender piped up, still half hidden behind Ron's frame.

Malfoy's eyebrows furrowed and shot up at the same time, and the action caused a remarkable, not entirely amusing effect on his smooth-skinned face. But again, Hermione had to suppress the urge to giggle.

"Lav," Ron reproached, his right hand blindly trying to shove her behind him again.

She slapped her hand away. "Don't be silly, Ronald. If Harry and Ginny thinks he can be trusted, seeing as they're friends, I would think they're judgment isn't something immaterial."

He turned to her and frowned, almost pouted in response.

Who knew the day would come where Lavender would become a Weasley matron – funnily, Hermione saw it right then.

Lavender marched right up to Harry and smiled up at him, nodding in greeting. "Harry. Ginny," she addressed, with the same smile and nod. Then she maneuvered through the small space between Harry and Ginny to approach Malfoy whose creases on his face had multiplied and deepened.

"It's nice to meet you again." She had her hand out, like it was going for a shake. Hermione noticed that Ginny looked triumphant, maybe even a little smug. Everyone else looked incredulous – though she had to admit that Malfoy could have convinced anyone else with that look of his that that hand was nothing short of one of the Giant Squid's tentacles.

His own hand approached it with wariness akin to that of someone who was trying to fool a hungry carnivorous bear from believing he was prey.

"Brown." He nodded mechanically as he shook her hand. "Pleasure," he said, as if he knew nothing of the word. Yes, just a soulless robot.

"Lav –" Ron moved in his spot, an arm stretching forward aimlessly.

"Ron," Lavender interrupted him by speaking his name in an admonishing tone and flashing him a don't-you-dare look before turning back to Malfoy. "I've heard many wonderful things about you, as have the rest of the Wizarding community – why, I don't really have any reliable source, the Prophet is still trash –"

Hermione almost sneered, or maybe almost laughed, again. She couldn't handle it anymore. Everything was so _funny_. _Lavender_ thinking the gossip rag called the Daily Prophet as trash? Wasn't it her second bible after Witch Weekly? Oh goodness, did Hermione want to laugh about everything. It was all foggy and surreal. Had she woken up in the wrong dimension? She was generally a fine morning person – she was a all-day kind of person, the war had made her so. So what was this elusive haziness that occupied her buzzing thoughts with an undertone of an almost amiable hum? Had she crossed some unmentionable line last night when she tipped off her difficultly maintained scale of balance by stepping into her Floo and out of the Burrow's? Or was it when she pushed open the very door where the curious pack of people stood now? Maybe it was when she whispered her old lover, her old best friend's name. Maybe it was when she fell asleep. Maybe it was when she woke up. Maybe she just hit her head in her house somewhere last night after Malfoy left. Or it could be that Malfoy never walked back into her life, would she really be disappointed by that?

She couldn't bear to analyze it at that very moment. Her brain felt fuzzy. She thought vaguely that maybe Wrackspurts had come back with a vengeance due to her disbelief and dismissal of their existence. And her thoughts, the one-liners that flit barely formed in and out of her head, they kept being interrupted –"No, I can't imagine, not really," Malfoy had just said drily, amusement staining the wariness on his face.

"OH, FOR CHRIST'S SAKE!"

Hermione blinked dazedly, surprised at the sudden outburst. Oh, yes, she was the one who had exploded.

Everyone stared at her with funnily different expressions. Ron looked halfway scared. Harry looked wary. Ginny looked incredulous. Lavender looked unperturbed, if not a little admonished – goodness knows why! Malfoy had an eyebrow raised impossibly high and Hermione could not seem to name the expression he wore.

She pursed her lips to hide her unaccountable smile. Hermione Granger did not enjoy having her thoughts interjected, though most of the time, it was not an issue for her immense concentration – and her snappy hushing and scolding – managed to help her avoid such cases. Maybe her thoughts just were not loud enough today, so vague and undefined, or maybe they were just so utterly pointless, they were being rejected continuously by each other. She didn't like the incoherence. She didn't like the maybes.

That was it. She didn't like anything that she was short of being certain of, not that life cut her any slack and made her choices without risk or anywhere near easy. But she was a smart girl, yes, and she could always think through them. And she was a brave girl and she could storm through them.

Even with all that, when she had a this feeling, this instinct in all its Gryffindor splendor that she was not sure of her feelings towards Ron, that maybe they had worn and taken its wash off by time, she couldn't go through with it. Where was the debate? Truly, where was the fight and what were the things that convinced her that maybe they still had a chance?

Lavender returned to Ron's side, laying a soothing hand on his arm while casting glances at the tense group of people that crowded the small room. She smiled, the curve of her lips growing from tentative to confident when no one threw anything at her.

"Would anyone like to stay for breakfast?"

Hermione's eyes would've bulged at the thought of the long ago weight-obsessed Lavender offering up breakfast if she hadn't been so immersed in her thoughts, they couldn't be interrupted this time around. In this case, she only noted it in the back of her head, as the sound of the formed words buzzed past her ears. Oh, yes, she has gotten her magic back, so to speak.

Hermione thought about how she had spent quite the amount of time running away, when she clearly had to face things. It was a good opportunity to get her head back and take a break, a long soul vacation. Even so, she of all people should know that sometimes new questions presented themselves in a slew of new situations, a new angle to an image to spark an idea for her to be able to snatch the answer that waves in and out of thin air.

"Lav –"

Ron's attempted protest was silenced by a light slap to his back.

Hermione thought hard about the tipping points in the nights years ago when she was encircled in a waist-deep pool of doubt. The doubt was not a sea that threatened to drown her. It was a strange otherworldly portal to an unfamiliar territory. She had after all pined for Ron since such an early age. But she wondered where the fishing hook came from to sink into her skin and pull her out, and what kept her hanging over it and not have her feet on the ground.

It was where the wind caught onto the hopes and presumptions of others, the whisperings in her ear about how they were so very much perfect together, how they would last forever, how they were made to fit like puzzle pieces. They were.

They were.

How? No one could know better than them.

However, comfortable as they were with where they had arrived after the long merciless run of a war at such a young age, did they really want to even think about it? They were meant to be together.

Ginny seemed to have left the scene, her light footsteps bounding off the stairs in a light rhythm so known to Hermione. Harry's voice was heard as he called out to her, probably making a breakfast order.

Lavender looked a little nonplussed for a moment before trying to take leave, assumingly to be the one to make breakfast, only to be stopped by Ron's tugging hand on hers.

Hermione thought, still.

But how? How were they meant to be together? Yes, that was the question they had to answer. And they'd been walking circles around it, really. And those damned whispers tempted them – no,_ her_ – they pulled her in a separate direction, tugged her into a sense of do-or-die.

"Hermione, would you like to join us for breakfast?" Lavender asked.

Hermione's interjected reverie gave no chance for her to speak up before Malfoy did.

"Is it wise to invite the madwoman who's still in love with your boyfriend? Well, I assume he's your boyfriend –"Ron spluttered, turning splotchy in his redness and Lavender blanched only a little but Malfoy didn't stop.

" – honestly, Brown. I've heard that you've gained quite a bit of respect in your growth in maturity. I would suspect your intellect has grown too, but clearly, such a shame too, it hasn't. Self-preservation, my naïve little Gryffindor –"

_Hold it_. Hold it a second.

"Malfoy! Can you please get your arse down here!" Ginny yelled from the kitchen, assumedly.

"Merlin's sake, woman," he muttered under his breath, irritated but proceeded to stomp down the stairs, most likely in hopes of bringing the Burrow down to the dirt he thought it belonged in.

Hermione's head spun as Malfoy's earlier words echoed sluggishly and late in time through it. Finally, the letters and spaces slotted in between each other in correct order to form sense and meaning, and Hermione began spluttering as well.

"_In love_ – with Ron?"

Lavender made a face that suggested she was offended before a confused look took over and she settled for looking appeased. Of course she should have been happy with Hermione's reaction. What a _polite_ being she had become.

Hermione only noted that with barely a sixty-fourth of her attention as the answers, like the feeling of hot, smoldering water rolling over her in the most gradually paced wash and wash away, while steam clouded her eyes, came to her.

She hadn't been in love with Ron for a long, long time. But she stayed, and they remained the same. Because she had to keep Ron, hadn't she? She_ had_ to. After everything, she couldn't lose him. There was no going back. How could they just revert back to friends? Drop out as lovers? It wasn't as if there was a button she could click to magically erase the past three years – scratch that, ten years, at least eight! No spell either, unless she considered Obliviating everybody around them and counterfeiting memories for each of them. She was sorely tempted by the idea of the Time Turner, but the idea of paradoxes and parallel universes screamed a Banshee's screech of a bad idea. But no, that wasn't what a person like her – Godric knew what type of person that was, but damn that all to hell right now – would do!

They were good as friends, _best _friends. Bloody hell, they were brilliant at it. They were great at the murderous fights and supportive talks. They were alike but also different, and at most points, it didn't_ click_. It was more of tolerance, a quiet acceptance with the huff of a sigh and "he/she's like that". He was angry and jealous, fun-loving and spontaneous. She was by no means perfect or saintly patient. She could take it, but could she love it? Could she live with it the rest of her life?

Yes. The answer was yes.

"We're friends," she said slowly, almost only to herself.

"We're friends, Lavender," she repeated, her brown eyes glimmering with a well-known determinacy, her affirmation a promise for no competition.

"Best friends," she clarified with a soft smile, to Ron.

The tip of Ron's ears remained stained by red but the rest of his face's blood drained away from the surface to its normal shade and color. His face cracked open into a smile that was beaming, almost relieved.

Lavender clapped her hands and squealed delightedly. Glad that some things weren't completely different.

But she seemed to turn serious almost instantly after.

"I think it's time you told Hermione about how you were impersonating Mrs. Weasley," she said solemnly.

It took a moment for Hermione to make the connection in her still hazy brain while she watched Ron's face pale into the whitest parchment, _paper_ even.

"OHMAIGOD!" she shrieked, swearing in the back of her head that her hair had just frizzed up into a mini explosion of its own.

Ron shrank in all his big, strong man glory and Lavender jumped a little, frozen shortly before inching closer to him.

_My wand, my wand…_

"Hermione…"

Oh, was she saying that out loud?

"Where is my wand!"

_Oh, bloody hell, I left it at home._

Incensed, Hermione almost did a third-year and gave it to him right in the face, preferably nose. She looked up from searching her admittedly skimpy appearance which left nowhere for the wand to be kept, honestly, and saw that Lavender had planted herself directly between herself and Ron, blocking her line of sight of him mid-chest downwards.

She must be insane. Really.

She just put herself in front of _the_ Hermione Granger. Not the war heroine, balance-headed Auror Hermione Granger. The third-year Malfoy-punching, sixth-year using-canaries-as-bullets Hermione. At least she had the decency to look scared. Ron looked utterly in disbelief. No, wonder.

Hermione knew that look.

"_There's nothing to compare…"_

So she took a second, a breath and turned around, leaving the dumbfounded but thoroughly relieved couple behind. She knew there was no competition.

She really didn't want to win this time anyway.

.

.

"Granger, I thought you were going to hex his freckly red-headed self into oblivion –"

"Shush."

"– but of course, unless you stowed your wand away in your bra –"

"Shh."

"– though I'm pretty sure you're not wearing one –"

"_God_."

"– no need, Malfoy's just fine –"

"Oh my God."

"– the idea of you worshipping the very ground I walk on though –"

"Shut up."

"– ah, ah, ah, I will not pass kind judgment on you –"

"_Malfoy_, do you always talk this much?"

Ginny perked up from by the stove as Hermione shoved Malfoy into the kitchen. Her hands were busy with an electrical mixer that hummed much quieter than Hermione's at home, her eyes bright with an excitement that began to have an uncanny resemblance to that of Mr. Weasley's when in contact with Muggle items.

"What are you doing?" Hermione asked cautiously, eyeing the batter she was electrically mixing. Something did not quite click in her head, but she couldn't grasp what to be exact. She blamed the Wrackspurts. And Malfoy. Though she couldn't say he passed through her brain and messed with her thoughts. Or could she?

"I'm making pancakes!" Ginny whooped.

"Have you been experimenting?" Hermione voiced after a long pause.

Harry popped his head out from behind a kitchen cabinet painted a cheery yellow, holding a can of baked beans and rolling his eyes. "We do it all the time, Hermione, relax."

"Yes, I, for one, have not forgotten the last month's wonton incident," Ginny clipped in, turning off the mixer and waving the beaters around like she did her wand. "Honestly, Chinese food or no Chinese food, I knew that anything that sounds so similar to _wanton_ could not be a good thing."

"You're one to talk," Harry and Malfoy chorused in an almost distracted manner at the same time.

Hermione didn't know whether to laugh when the two men ducked as Ginny sent the spoons on the table dancing after them, threatening to thwack them, but she did, because, well, today, it seemed she didn't know a lot of things. And she had been doing so for a long time, had she ever admitted it to herself. Maybe she was fine with not knowing anything.

No, she shook her head to herself with a hint of a smile, tinted by less sadness than it had been in a long time, such a quiet, thoughtful one as it was, she would never be fine with not knowing anything. And it certainly wasn't true either. She could, however, settle for the truth, that she didn't know too much at all, which she knew – see, habits die hard – and also that she would undoubtedly never get to know everything.

On the other hand, her thirst for knowledge shouldn't diminish just because of the fact that she couldn't master all the knowledge in the world.

"What's the wonton incident?"

Ginny, who had given up the chase of two men who were content playing hide and seek, huffed and directed the spoons back to their places on the table, looked up from the pancakes over the stove, and looked over to Harry and Malfoy. They stood, side by side, giving each other the evil eye. The contempt seemed almost plausible, but from what Hermione knew of the new friends – well, her deduction skills were_ surely _still intact – they were merely an imprint of their twelve-year old selves, an overgrown hedge of the shape of hatred and misunderstanding it used to be molded in.

"Would you like the honors in retelling that particular mishap, Potter?" Malfoy offered bemusedly.

"That's a kind offer," Harry retorted, weighing his tone sarcasm.

"What happened?" Hermione tried again, her curiosity infinitely peaked as she looked back and forth between the two.

Harry waved a hand around dismissively. "It's not that interesting anyway."

Hermione opened her mouth to protest, but without missing a beat, Malfoy cut in. "I think you should be heading home, Granger. You are not dressed appropriately for, as far as I'm concerned, any eyes at all."

Fuming, Hermione resisted the urge to stomp her foot as she glared at him, not really seeing him, because as she had suddenly noticed, he was right. Not about her attire – oh, who was she kidding, he was right about that too – but she meant her need to go home. She was uncomfortable under the scrutiny of this new Higher Being that whipped up this combination for such a beautiful day.

Just then, Lavender, in true matron form with her floral dress and hair band and apron, came skipping into the kitchen. Hermione could hear Ron stomping on the stairs.

"That's my cue," she said quickly, nodding to the people in the room and awkward avoiding Lavender discernibly bobbing around trying to meet her eyes, as if nervous for a chance to speak.

Hermione kept up her pace in leaving the kitchen, heading for the fireplace.

"Mine as well, I presume."

She turned around, surprised, eyes and mouth wide, unable to object while her brain was still relatively disconnected, to see Malfoy as he stepped up behind her. She gasped as he gave her a shove into the fireplace, her hand loosening at just the right moment before she fell into it. She heard him say firmly, "Granger's house!"

.

.

It was quiet. Heavy like the color of the curtains at her window, shielding the invasion of sunlight threatening to bleach the eggshell walls.

He shifted and she accommodated. He pushed and she gave. He threw her off and she refused to fall. They fit inside the brick box, like two counterparts, like the photo frame-overstuffed mantelpiece above their heads. She could feel that little thumb-sized piece of skin on her thigh his knuckles skim across tingle. She wondered if it were an accident.

He said nothing, and save for the rustling sound of distant life, it was quiet, but not quite dead. It was not silence filled with tension. Not silence of emptiness. Not silence for the lack of words, or silence brimming with them like a balled up fist wound so tight it threatened to explode.

They had both stopped moving. And to her surprise, she found they fit. Her head beneath his chin. His shoulder against her cheek. Her arm stretching the span of his stomach, bent at the elbow to hold in front of her. His trapping her between himself and the wall. The other arm of both falling at their own sides. His legs and her legs clearly distinguished, not touching. Just like the rest of them.

She could say they fit rather awkwardly.

Awkwardly.

She remembered last night, when she had been trapped between the solid length of this man and the door. She had been trapped, yes. Despite her slightly askew perception of the person Malfoy had become, she still loathed to think she would allow herself to remain in such a compromising position with him if she had been given the chance to disallow it.

She could accept that she was a woman… with... needs. And if the heat tugging at her navel had been anything to go by, she had been in one of those situations where she had been without control of her state.

But now it was very hard to tell. She could risk brushing up against him for just a fraction of a moment and then step out of the fireplace, being completely free of his invasion of her personal space. It was easy. So easy and, yet, she couldn't bring herself to move.

She had been staring at a spot of black, where fire had scorched the red brick just skimming the side of his arm. Slowly, she lifted her gaze to meet his eyes.

The strange, detached feeling that had occupied her body was drawn out of her, dissolving into the steadily heating air between them. _Oh, God._

His eyelids had lowered, lashes tangling. He let out a lengthy breath through his nose and she inhaled the air he exhaled. The moment following was a frozen one, crystallized into clarity and a sense of lasting. It was one of those moments Hermione knew one could replay afterwards for nothing short of obsessive studying, and would be able to break it down into pieces and parts.

It was not faulty memory. It would not be grainy.

When she dissected it, it would come off in little squares, each that were of essence of its own.

The way his left hand almost reached for hers. Each breath they took, bringing their hands to graze, light as feathers.

How, with each breath they took, the way his chest rose to almost meet hers. And her heart, oh, her heart, it thumped harder, quicker every time their clothes created ghosts of the feeling of touch.

The way his jaw tightened and slackened, rhythmically, in time with her

How when she staggered under the weight of the moment, her bare leg scuffed against his pants. And how, when she almost collided with him, his left hand finally reached out to grip her wrist.

She would remember the way his right hand shot out to brace against the inner wall, the way his arm was a thick line underneath her ear, above her shoulder. And she could feel it. She was finally encased in his body heat.

The moment was shattered, when he suddenly twisted, pushing.

She tripped over the ledge of the fireplace, his hold on her wrist keeping her from falling to a heap on the floor. His handling was rough, causing her mouth to drop open in surprise, a surge, a pleasant feeling plunging through her. And she could've sworn something that was leading toward that forbidden thing – well, with Malfoy it was – she had escaped from thinking about for a very long time was about to happen.

But it didn't.

He let go of her wrist. She held it to her chest, glancing at the red tint of her skin.

He shifted his weight, his hands having fallen to his sides. He glanced at her, looking and then looking away. His eyes lingered over a spot to her left. When she thought he would torment her with the anticipation for the silence to be broken, he just said, "There are ants."

What?

"What?"

"Ants, Granger."

She spun around and saw the trail of little insects leading up to the glass of wine. She had left it untouched after she had chased after Malfoy.

"Oh, dear," she gasped and rushed over, picking up her wand on the table top. She felt relief as she held it in her grip. There had been one too many situations where she had needed it and didn't have it over the past 12 hours.

She flicked it, Vanishing the ants, along with the rest of the wine. Realizing what a mess her living space was, she set out to Spell everything into order.

He spoke to her as she did, his genuine curiosity barely masked. "What did you say to Weasley?"

"Hmm?" she hummed in between sending the wine glass to her kitchen sink.

"More importantly, what did Weasley say to you?"

She didn't want to think of the answer to his question. She knew it would bring her blood to boil, and despite the fact that she had a relatively good night's sleep last night, she was tired.

So she hummed once more, making sure her papers were filed under the correct categories. Work for work, interest for interest and extra research for just that.

"Granger."

She had finished with her cleaning so she couldn't very well continue humming like she couldn't hear him. So she turned around to face him.

He stood leaning against the wall, managing to look bored while staring at her so intensely she felt the need to squirm. What a talent he had.

She sighed. "Well, he told he impersonated Molly," she answered conversationally, huffing in attempt to flip a few stray curls away from tickling her face. She gave up and smoothed them over, tucking the strands behind her ears, looking down at her feet.

Oh, dear. She completely forgot to heal them.

The blood had been washed off, and granted, the scratches were nothing serious, shallow. But it was her damn brain, as soon as she remembered them, the pain was palpable. She resisted a wince when she shifted her weight all onto one foot in her discomfort.

No such luck hoping he wouldn't notice. He was much more observant than she would have ever given her credit for.

She watched as his eyes grazed over her feet and shifted, she didn't know where, because he started sauntering up to her. She took half a step back instinctively.

He slowed. And bent. And he was on his knees.

She watched, dumbfounded.

He drew his wand and he looked up at her. There was a hard edge in the grey of his eyes, reminding her of a cloudy day, daring her to go out without an umbrella, as he dared her break the solemnity of that moment. To back away, or ask him what he was doing. As if it weren't obvious.

But it really wasn't.

This was Draco Malfoy. She was sure she'd thought that one too many times over the past day. So with all due respect to her former incredulity, this really didn't seem so much as impossible anymore.

The obvious was that he was going to heal the cuts on her feet. So she leaned back, groping to land a palm on the arm chair somewhere behind her.

With that, he broke eye contact.

He touched her ankle, his fingers cool. She almost shivered.

He touched her. It was the first time, with all intents and purposes. It wasn't her tripping – like she had many times, she remembered, embarrassed. It wasn't him dragging her somewhere, also something he had done quite a number of times between last night and this morning.

He was gentle when he lifted her right foot, murmuring a Healing spell then moving on to her other foot. When he set her left foot down, the tips of his fingers trailed down the side of her foot, to her toes.

She blushed furiously when her quiet mind jumped to the thoughts along the lines of _fetishes _and _feet_. Not that she thought Malfoy was a feet fetish kind of person. Probably more of a leg –

Oh, my God, what was she _thinking_?

He was staring at her. Why was he staring at her?

She slowly lowered herself. Her eyes were almost level to his. She was on her knees. Why was she on her knees?

Why was she on her knees in front of Malfoy?

She must be imagining the softening in the silver of his eyes. But she felt herself blink slowly, caught up in reverence of how delicate it all felt.

There really wasn't much space left between them. She wondered if her eyes were crossing when they flickered to focus on the bow of lips, swearing she saw a twitch, fascinated by the thought that it might have been the beginning of a smile.

His barely parted lips moved, opening further. Her mind registered that he was about to speak, and she waited, feeling a surreal calm settle over her.

"No, Granger, I don't usually talk this much," he breathed. He left the statement hanging, as if no explanation was needed.

She looked back up into his eyes, and all she could hear was the push and pull of the oxygen in the short stretch between them. Distantly, she recognized her own heartbeat, recognized how very real this was.

And she understood somehow; she didn't need really need an explanation.

* * *

><p>AN: The explanations will come, next chapter, hopefully. I hope you can bear with me, thank you!


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